


Sing, Goddess

by Polemokrateia



Category: Greek Tragedy, Greek and Roman Mythology, Hellenistic Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Bronze Age, Gen, Trojan War, Troy - Freeform, the trojan war cycle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-04-20 09:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14257488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polemokrateia/pseuds/Polemokrateia
Summary: Yet another retelling of the Trojan War cycle.Tired of those yet? But we all know there can never be too many.Let's try to approach it from the beginning.And... not disrespect the source material too much, if possible.Trolling Paris? Always a delight.





	1. The spiral: Gold

Sing, Kalliope of the beautiful voice – who better than You! – of the workings of the world, mercurial and unchanging.

Of five ages, flowing one after the other, a twirling spiral of five different metals - a serpentine chimera devouring and regurgitating itself without end.

  
Five races of men followed one another, each one different from those that came before. They did not leave behind much for their successors, much less those successors understood.

  
Gold. Silver. Copper. Bronze. Iron. Human lives grow steadily shorter, Gods inevitably further with every step taken, with each coil of the wheeling spiral.

  
Only the oldest of the Olympians remember anything definite about the golden age, though they seldom tell.

Ouranides Kronos ruled that time with His wife Rhea. The young Earth was generous, rich in fruits, grain and honey, and those who walked upon Her then saw little difference between deadly Thanatos and Hypnos with His wreath of white poppies.

  
But that fabled, glittering race dissolved into eternity, became kind daimones, and, of all the places in the world, only the Isles of the Blessed heavy cares, so charitably gifted to humanity by Pandora, avoid – but who can reach them anymore?

  
Still, the illusion is persistent. Simply extend your hand – you could almost touch that happy world.

Here it is - shining gold, the sun in its zenith. Mountaintops embraced by the heavens, truth that does not hide behind endless veils, a youthful world without cracks, full of habitual violence and blinding immaculate beauty.

Glory impervious to rust, the face of Helios not yet hidden behind clouds, lavish banquets enjoyed by both the Gods above and mortal kings with their retinues.

It is still easy to forget the finality of mankind’s fate, so similar to that of an anthill one accidentally crushes in blind haste.

The fissure between earth and heaven is tiny for now, and it is still not impossible to meet Dike, the lady of justice.

Sweat comes because of heat rather than from exhaustion, and men have yet to realize that all peace reeks of inevitable war.

  
Not for long. That half-remembered bliss is all too fragile, and pitiless Ananke is ready to spin the wheel of time – quickly, quickly, one more turn closer to insanity. Change is the only constant, peace as ephemeral as autumn’s delicate gold.

  
Picture a glistening apple inscribed “To the most beautiful”. Doves, embroidered on a veil of deep blue. Mykene’s lion, gorged on wine yet thirsting for blood. Horses of immortal breed, a singer’s voice among reverent silence, a field of wheat awaiting harvest, a heavenly swan’s embrace, and that wondrous egg, not yet split into two halves of sorrow and joy.


	2. The weight of humanity

The voice of bronze in all its resounding might seems to have settled in this cave for all time.

Swords striking shields – tireless, thunderous. Best music in existence. Once heard, it will fill the world’s memory forever.

Countless heartbeats in one.

Kouretes. Warlike, audacious, young – it had been their thunderous racket that once protected a newborn child from a father who would swallow his own progeny.

It was enough.

That father – Ouranides Kronos – now inhabits the depths of Tartaros, whereas the infant…

Zeus Aigiokhos stands in the Diktean cave, His gaze never leaving that pile of ancient arms, left thoughtlessly on the floor.

Were anyone to take these useless pieces of bronze, to raise a din – would it reverberate throughout all of existence?

Not likely.

There is rust everywhere.

He does not turn around when stone itself begins to breathe.

When the Earth suddenly trembles, Her smouldering magma-blood flowing perhaps a finger’s breadth below the surface.

That is in no way unusual.

Grandmother Gaia has awakened for a short time.

Inhaled, sending ripples through hard rock. Every move permeates all, from the furnace-heart of Her core to the fruitful crust.

Does the World address the lord of Olympos with mere words? Perhaps She might.

\- Khaire, Meilikhios. What is it that you wish to know now?

\- You are aware of my predicament.

\- So is Prometheus. He explained how to break the cycle already. What more do you need?

\- A non-temporary solution. Thetis is not the last one. My throne is not safe still.

\- It is not, – She agrees with indifference, like cold water dripping from stalactites, like tectonic plates slowly moving, like Typhoeus breathing.

\- Do you expect me to submit? – He demands, and the words are lightning flashes, a storm brewing in a tiny grotto, unreachable Olympos rising above all existence.

\- It does not matter.

\- What does, then?

\- Life. That which has a beginning will have an end, and all finality is pregnant with endless possibility, like a buried seed. This will never change.

\- Very well. But while I am strong – I shall meet any challenge and answer in kind. My enemies shall turn to ash. Have you not learned after the Gigantes?

\- This is not about me, grandchild. Stop searching for an enemy with a face and a name. Do you not know, that Ananke has a hundred of those – and none at all?

\- Therefore, however many times I avoid another woman with her prophesied whelp, sooner or later one capable of victory over me shall appear, born of my own seed. Still, later is better than sooner. The sea maiden has already been promised in marriage to a worthy mortal hero. Let his child, not mine, grow up mightier than his sire.

\- If that hero passes the nereid’s test.

\- Should this one fail, another is bound to succeed. But you did not come to speak of this.

\- How insightful of you.

\- What is it, Grandmother?

\- Humans.

The words are a soft rustle. Humans. Grain-eating men and women. Numerous, stubborn, loud and resilient.

Now they murder a pig so that fresh blood may cleanse them of old guilt. Next, they dive right into new kinds of crime, believing at least temporary forgiveness can be so easily bought. Precious few rise above this cursed cycle.

\- What of them?

\- There are too many, Kronides. And they are too irresponsible. Their settlements grow without limit. When they cut down forests – they never stop until every healthy tree has been felled. When they hunt – their desire to kill is more evident than hunger. They murder, poison, burn – more and more, because their own numbers swell. And each single one wants, wants, wants. I am tired. Bearing such a burden is too much.

He considers. Whatever may be said of broad-breasted Gaia, proud and ruthless as a lioness, She can withstand much, and does not complain easily.

\- Do you desire their destruction, then? I came close to doing that once, but do not intend to repeat the exercise again.

To an Olympian gaze, Deukalion’s flood seems all too recent. Why unleash more of the same so soon? Eventually, there may be no stones left to recreate humanity.

\- My wish is for mortals to become less numerous. Particularly the ones whose footsteps are the heaviest.

\- Heroes, then. This is possible. A war, or several – men of bronze hardly need any incentive for conflict. I shall do this, if Themis does not counsel otherwise.

She exhales, wrapping the shoulders of Her children - the mountains - in damp mist.

\- Thank you, Meilikhios. I wish there was no need to ask for this.

\- Do not resort to empty phrases. What must happen – shall.

Exhausted, Gaia heaves another sigh, and returns to Her troubled sleep.

Zeus the Thunderer briefly gazes at a dark-winged figure impatiently waiting for His orders on the edge of light and shadows, and gives a curt nod of consent.

  She rises off the thin blade separating night and day, She spreads Her wings, and how piercingly rings Her voice above the world, leaving tiny cracks in heaven’s crystal dome.

Bellicose Eris knows Her task, and takes to it all too readily.

War hangs in the air.


	3. Tei Kallistei

   Peleus is not a coward, nor is he one to run from difficulties.

   He had proven himself over and over - in that famed expedition to faraway Kolkhis, in the hunt for a monstrous boar sent by Artemis Herself to punish Kalydon.

   Exile for accidental kinslaying, the cheating wife of Iolkos’ hospitable ruler, her lies, venomous enough to sow bloody discord between former friends – Aiakides can weather many things, letting the tides of misfortune shatter against his shield.

   Here is a man capable of facing a herd of wild kentauroi weaponless.

   Yet, when old Nerus’ daughter, silver-footed Thetis, was promised to him in marriage “on a single condition” – that was no joking matter.

   Well known is the pride of untamed sea-maidens, who brook no dishonour. Dare to touch one without consent: a God will be rejected, a mortal faces righteous vengeance, chilling enough to be remembered for generations.

   It matters not that Peleus himself had nothing to do with the arrangement, decided on Olympian heights. Pure Thetis, most dazzling among fifty sisters, was not born to a mortal wife’s fate, and forgiveness comes no easier to her, than it does to the cold waves.

But she shall not deny the will of Zeus and His queen. Neither can the former Argonaut.

Not now, not once he has seen her emerging from her father’s domain – lithe, skin like marble and jet-black hair – bathed in moonlight, sea foam licking bare feet like the most faithful of dogs.

Is there anything he would not do to touch her right now?

There must be, but not in the mortal world.

   The other daughters of Nereus are following her, heading towards a grotto they frequent. Each one bearing flowers, rhyta full of wine, olive oil, barley.

Thetis gives the sign to stop.

   Peleus approaches, taking no notice whatsoever when she - green-eyed, wearing one of those colourful Kretan skirts, so like and unlike any human girl - starts changing shape in his arms.

   She transforms into wild beasts: now a lioness, now a snake. Into water, into flame – all this as easily, as Aiakides breathes.

   Surrender, human. Stop. You are far too mortal, the current in your veins surges too fast, you shall never return to your fount, but rush down, and down, to scatter like a waterfall.

   Surrender is unthinkable. Passion burns hotter than fire, a dream is no easier to seize than the sinuous current – but any manner of destruction is fair under Thetis’ gaze.

   A battle? Hardly. This is a test. Can this manling be worthy of a few years in an immortal life? Wave’s touch, kisses that leave behind ashes, her predatory betaloned embrace?

   Eventually the sea maiden decides he is worthy.

   Meanwhile, Peleus, used to overcoming weakness and fear, is careless of what the price of the dream he never knew he had would be. There is no place for regret.

 ****************************************************************************************************

   Separate eternity – center, below, above -

With a blade of flint: win the threefold throne,

Built on heights unreachable, axis of heaven bright,

Riding on salty waves in tumult, weathered and worn,

Deep beneath the earth, that abode of dejected shades;

Thus they drew their lots – Kroniones, that elder race:

Kingdoms, worthy of each, in a helmet, divided fates.

 

   Blessed is this day on the slopes of shaggy Pelion, when Olympian greatness briefly touches a world subject to destructive Time.

   Hephaistos gifts the speechless former Argonaut with wondrous armor, Poseidon brings tireless immortal horses, Kheiron the kentauros, most faithful of friends and mentors, offers a divinely blessed spear of mountain ash.

   Khaire, Oikumene, rejoice – when can something like this happen again?

   Fragrant wreaths, bliss of wine and nectar, no kylix runs dry. None other than the Queen of Heaven Herself carries the bridal torch for Her green-eyed ward.

   Hear the sound of dazzling Paian’s kithara, His song of how the world’s tripartite division came to be, the Mousai and Kharites weaving their stately dance.

   All are the most welcome of guests today, none a stranger at the celebration.

   All, but not necessarily everyone.

   Look, a golden apple rolling across one small table. Hard to guess, whether it is of true metal, or the glitter is false.

   Ah, what a blessed day – for a Nereid’s marriage to a hero has been sanctified by the presence of so many divinities, celestial and earthly, the fruit barely caught anyone’s notice.

But catch it did.

   A milk-white hand seizes the bright orb, large brown eyes examine it with curiosity, a smile touches thin lips.

Apparently, the apple carries an inscription.

   - “Tῃ καλλίστῃ ” – to the fairest. Now, who would argue that is not I, the consort of Zeus.

  - I would, Boopis. – another lady intervenes, fair-haired, garments akin to silvery mist, golden jewelry slightly paler than those rich tresses. Only the embroidered belt holding this wondrous fabric beneath Her breasts is full of bright colour.

   - Neither shall I be silent. Does this not seem a worthy challenge for us?

   So speaks a third one: tall, bright-eyed, no less familiar with the spear than with the distaff. Even Wisdom personified might not resist a game exciting enough.

    Meanwhile, the wedding of Peleus and Thetis becomes subdued as the rustling grass, flows past the participants of this tiny immortal quarrel, wary of touching them.

   Each Goddess is full of determination, none shall withdraw. What else is left, but to petition the father of Gods and men – may the Cloud-Gatherer judge, as is only proper!

   But how can a choice be made? One is the Thunderer’s queen and wife, another – His favored daughter and loyal right hand, yet another – mistress of passion itself. Whatever the decision – once shall He be correct, twice mistaken.

   Thus Eris unfurls Her dark wings, casting shadows over this day, blessed and cursed at once.

   Time flows differently for humans and those who reside on Olympos, thus it is not excessively difficult to convince the Goddesses to postpone their dispute lest they tarnish the celebration.

   A month goes by. Another. A year. Five years. Ten. Has the matter been forgotten?

   No such luck. The trio finally loses their patience, and they demand an answer.

   So Zeus calls on Hermes, heaven’s messenger, giving the order to locate a certain young shepherd on the slopes of Troad’s mount Ida.

   A clever fellow, and a connoisseur of feminine beauty if there ever was one. Additionally, he is accustomed to fair evaluations, as Ares Himself could attest.

   Reportedly, when once the warrior God turned into a bull, and was victorious over the boy’s favorite beast – that shepherd awarded the interloper with the triumphal garland without complaint. Why, then, not have this mortal decide between three Olympian beauties.

Can’t be harder than bull fights.

This complicatedly uncomplicated rustic's name? Paris.

******************************************************************************************************

   Coming face to face with four immortals in one day would have made anybody else speechless – either in reverence, or fear.

   Not Paris, however. Barely an eyebrow raised.

   He never misses a beat under the scrutiny of wing-footed Koinos.

   As if nothing is out of the ordinary, as if such guests are to be expected here, amid bulls, sheep and goats.

   What better chorus for a play as surreal as this one?

   It is for the Gods Themselves to decide, when and where humanity should be reminded of Their presence. Only those entirely distant from the divine would be surprised to discover said presence more readily felt in a place of quiet reflection, than beneath palace roofs.

   The evening is pleasant enough, cloaking the world in Phoenician purple, amber-hued light dancing merrily in a cold brook, and that new tune he came up with the other day is coming together splendidly – ah, does even Pan play the syrinx, all that remains of His beloved nymph, with such passion?

   There is no reason for alarm. He is not the one asking for a favour right now.

   Observe, boy. Consider. Appraise. Do not rush. Drink in the truly divine sight before you.

   - Comparing immortal beauty with more of the same is hard for one subject to decay. But since you command it, just give me time to deliberate. If it pleases my Lord and Ladies, will they kindly await my answer until daybreak?

   His divine visitors have no objection. But how can they resist the urge to add some weight to their case, if each desires victory, and, perhaps more importantly, the boy’s embarrassment?

   Antheia speaks first, perfect plaits covered by a tall polos and the folds of a purple himation, embroidered with vibrant peacock feathers and an intricate golden web. Her sandals also glint with gold in the dusk.

   - Listen now, Paris, none of us is accustomed to defeat. Your task does indeed demand time for reflection. But do keep in mind: if you present the apple to me, as is appropriate, all of Asia can be yours. This shall come to pass.

   An Olympian’s word is ironclad. What was promised must happen, the country bumpkin shall sit on a throne, pass judgment, drink rich Mysian wine out of cunningly wrought gold, only letting go of his sceptre once old age takes hold of him.

   Aside from that, the youth remembers another thing: the precious fruits growing far beyond the edge of the world, cared for by the Hesperides, which do lawfully belong to Hera as Her wedding gift from Grandmother Earth. What if this chilling treasure, smelling of mayhem in his palm, is one of those?

   The other Lady – owl-eyed, high-browed, crowned with a golden helmet – can promise a fate no less worthwhile. Zeus’ hard-hearted daughter does not bestow greatness – She teaches, guides, and woe betide those, who prove unworthy.

   Confident is Her stride, fearsome to see, the Aigis woven of snakes wrapping Her broad shoulders, mighty as a trumpet Her voice.

   - Be aware, that power accidentally gained is lost with similar ease. Whereas I would instil you with wisdom and strength in peace and war – so rulers would beg for your guidance.

   The shepherd bows in acknowledgement. What the Defender of Cities offers is worthy of the loftiest heroes, but, alas, Paris would make a paltry hero. He is not made of bronze.

   Divine right. Wisdom. They have spoken already. Still, neither feels right.

 

   She smiles – Aphrodite of the crystal voice, of dovelike gaze, hyacinths and crocuses in Her hair, and that smile blossoms with the quiet self-assurance of a rose.

   - Do you happen to know, lord of herds, who is the fairest of women among your race?

   - No, Lady. Who might that be?

   - Helen of Lakedaimon, who queen Leda bore to High-Thundering Zeus.

   He half-whispers, never looking away from the Goddess.

   - Mistress, does this Spartan beauty resemble You in the slightest?

   There is no reply. He is given time until dawn as asked, the contenders are willing to wait. But, without a doubt, the cowherd’s decision has already been made.

   Kyllenios the messenger, His wide-brimmed hat securely shading the God’s expression, sighs in disappointment. What thoroughly human predictability!


	4. The Games

   If kings there can be among herdsmen – these two might certainly be called so.

   The greybeards no longer look after cattle themselves, and the storied horses of the Troad have other caretakers, accustomed to looking down on the rest of the servants, yet a few old men resolve any dispute too trivial to merit the attention of royal officials.

   Only rarely do they leave their settlement for long, masters of a tiny princedom accountable to the capital at the turn of each season, but a world unto itself otherwise.

   Still, unrest is known even here, particularly in the wake of the spring Games.

   Those are held to honor a long-dead princeling, not that things like that should matter after all this time.

   - Agelaos, are the rumors about your boy’s intentions true? He wants to compete in the Games?

   - He does, Hyllos. And that boy is two palms taller than you already.

   - True enough, but that competition is no place for simple folk like us. You know the Priamidai will be present, and may the Gods help the child if he does something foolish!

   Agelaos shrugs his broad shoulders. It would have been much more surprising to find the “boy” doing something intelligent, instead. Foolish stunts have always been the norm.

   - What you say is fair. But he is stubborn, and the victor of the games shall receive for a prize our best bull, the one Paris had been so proud of. The poor animal was taken recently for that very purpose. They will gild his horns, adorn him with garlands, you know the routine. Paris might be the only man in all of Troad who doesn’t, and he wants his favorite plaything back no matter what.

   - Sounds like him alright. Well, let us hope Deiphobos can beat some sense into your son. You should have seen the prince last year, the way he won all the boxing matches!

   - We shall see how things go this time. Until later, my friend.

   Agelaos heads straight for his home – eyes downcast, thoughts occupied with the coming games. Leaving the most wayward of wayward children unattended is hardly an option, now that…

   Now that, one way or another, his son will leave the rich-wooled herds grazing on mount Ida’s slopes, and the embrace of his lovely nymph Oinone, forever.

   A certain sheet of cunningly embroidered linen will, naturally, travel with the old shepherd. Had he not kept it safe for so many years expecting and fearing just such an occasion? Now, if only his wife could understand that the time has come.

   How can he take Paris from her?

   When the young man, not without trouble, repeatedly overcomes the princes in the foot race, Agelaos is less than surprised.

   Neither is he shocked by Deiphobos’ jealous wrath, which forces the shepherds to take refuge at the Thunderer’s altar, or by the inevitable unveiling of the truth behind the rustic boy’s origin, which spilled as if from Epimeteus` foul pythos. That had all been unavoidable. Little remains hidden forever.

   May crows take all the bulls in the world.

********************************************************************************************************************

   She wailed – Kassandra, the insane princess – and when her father ordered the woman led away from the altar, and the sacred axe taken from her hands, she resisted viciously, demanding her newfound brother be put to death immediately.

   Deiphobos, for his part, obediently returned his dagger to its sheath, although it had been him who nearly succeeded in murdering Paris. The defeated prince managed to swallow his shame.

   At least somebody deigns to listen to the king here. Ahh, family arguments.

   - Agelaos, why did you not tell the truth earlier?

   - How, my lord? I had been ordered to abandon the child in the mountains, and I did so, but nine days later I came back, and saw him alive, and the she-bear close by, and…

   - You could not condemn him to death a second time. Neither can I, herdsman.

   - I feared your wrath, my lord. That is why I kept quiet, and raised Paris as my son. Be merciful, for I meant no harm to anyone.

   There is quite a bit of grey in Priam’s once dark hair, and even more exhaustion in his eyes.

   The queen, Hekabe, can barely hold back tears.

   Neither wants to remember that old prophecy, neither notices the light of a burning torch dancing on the walls of proud Wilusa.

   All they see is what they want to.

   An embroidered swaddling cloth, untorn and clean. The queen’s child, once wrapped in said swaddling cloth and abandoned in the wild, now grown into a handsome young man, a marvel to behold.

   How can that not be considered a miracle, a joyful sign from the Gods, a blessing of mercy bestowed on windy Wilusa?

   - You saved him from my folly, and that is what matters. Neither Hekabe nor I expected to see our child amongst the living. Have I ever given reason to think me ungrateful?

   - No, you have not. But men are often compelled by the fire in their breast, not their better nature. May the immortals be my witnesses; no human is made of stone. So, can you forgive my disobedience? – and the tension in the old man’s brittle voice slowly but surely gives way to tired resignation.

   - If you can forgive the decision I am about to make. Your young ward is a cowherd no more, but a prince, and henceforth, he shall live as one.

   Priam understands all too well, what a punishment such a decision is for the loyal old man. Still, he can not do otherwise. Not now that he witnessed the impossible with his own eyes.

   Deiphobos and his other sons might feel humiliated after what transpired at the Games. No matter, weeding out excessive pride will do them some good. They have no choice but to accept this rustic boy as their equal, however bitter the medicine may seem.

   Yet the truly bitter fate is the one awaiting Agelaos and his wife, who have no children of their own.

   - What right do I have to begrudge your decision, even if I want to?

   - On that, we can agree.

   The old servant merely bows. The years before him shall flow much more silently, than what he had gotten accustomed to, and those awaiting Paris are bound to be filled with color and clamor – much more so, than anyone can expect.

   Aside from mad Kassandra, of course, but who ever listened to her?

   Not knowing the future is hard. Knowing and being unable to change it – still harder.

   Worst of all, is knowing the inevitable, knowing you could change it, yet taking the wrong path anyway, because the right one is not meant for feeble human hearts.


	5. Of lions and sheep

   Meeting family you never knew you had is a comical thing. Particularly when one had been hearing of said family for seventeen years – the House of Laomedon, rulers of the whole realm.

   Well, Paris had seen stranger things in his life. Human beings hate the unknown, but, once the encounter is inevitable, accustom themselves to it with remarkable speed.

   Here, for one, is Priam himself. Perhaps Paris should learn to call him father. He rules Wilusa of the wide streets, and most of the Troad by proxy.

   Experienced, calculating, barely younger than wrinkled Agelaos. A man used to considering his options carefully, but, once a decision is made, it is as good as carved on solid rock.

   There had been another name. Podarkes, king Laomedon’s son, once ransomed out of slavery by his elder sister Hesione. Herakles the Akhaian indulged his friend Telamon’s new captive woman for no greater price than her cunningly adorned veil.

   The raiders left, bronze and fire fell silent for a time, and the Troad’s sole remaining lawful heir became known as Priam, he who has been ransomed.

   Little joy did Laomedon’s hubris bring to his kin and subjects, for it was his refusal to repay Alkeides for saving his daughter from a sea monster that prompted the attack in the first place. Worse yet, even the Olympians themselves the old king refused to thank properly, so a half-mortal’s ire must have seemed a trifle compared to that of black-maned Poseidon.

   Hekabe, his chief, lawful wife and queen. She presides over the rites of the Sun Goddess, and of concealed Lelwani. Hers to negotiate are the marriages of princes and princesses; hers is the trust of Hatti’s great tawananna.

   The day she met her child, Hekabe embraced him in public, and kissed his brow. Now, she is back to her icy self.

   Few are those who can approach her easily. Now the lady is taking part in a ceremony, now she desires solitude, another time – busy in her weaving room. However, the old woman took that cloth Paris had been wrapped in as a babe, and treats it as if it were something precious. Kreusa is convinced this is normal.

   Kreusa herself. The eldest daughter after Ilione – but that lady lives with her husband, a Thrakian chieftain. Kreusa is knowledgeable, never confused about who is sovereign of which place, which lands are disputed at the moment, and the like. Her patron divinity is the golden Alashiyan Lady, which Paris, naturally enough, approves of.

   Same goes for the woman’s betrothed, Aineias. How can the dardanian not honor the foam-born Goddess, if it is She who gave birth to him?

   This may well be the sole reason for pride in this poor sod’s case. He is barely older than Paris, a capable but not exceptional fighter, loves his father, whom the touch of an immortal had left a dry husk of his former self.

   The heir of Ankhises might well be an example of mediocrity so perfect it almost became remarkable.

   Hektor, now, is a different matter. Everything a prince and heir to the throne should be, and a bit more besides. A skilled warrior, despite the recent comparative peace in the Troad proper.

   He has become reluctant to involve himself in dangerous missions since Andromakhe of Hypoplakian Thebes was betrothed to him. Cowardice? Hardly. Stupid maturity, rather, attended by responsibility and boredom. Yawn.

   The heir is, thankfully, patient and understanding around the former cowherd.

   Deiphobos, alas, is anything but. Predator first, civilized human being a distant second. He is brave enough, capable enough – but has little taste for being second, even to Hektor the perfect. Forget accepting the fact he actually comes third, and a country bumpkin of all people outranks him.

   Ahh, what is that Ida-raised bumpkin to do with such a bothersome man?

   Laodike. Hair like honey. She loves nothing more than her pair of thunder-hoofed horses with coats as amber as her own mane.

   Let fools mutter how unwomanly driving a chariot on her own is, the princess will only laugh. Highborn Trojans have this skill in their blood, and even Deiphobos on his ferocious dappled team rarely outraces her.

   They challenge each other privately, always away from unwelcome observers. Proud as she is, Laodike is not free to show her skill in the sacred races.

   A shame, really, considering the undeniable fact that among all the famous horse-tamers of the Troad, only the aforementioned predatory prince and Hektor can equal this woman in, well, taming horses.

   Something about this daughter of Priam keeps reminding Paris of Oinone, with her locks always unbound, even though in the nymph’s case they are deliciously dark.

   Young Polyxene, for her part, constantly gets sick in carriages. She also happens to be frustratingly literate. Which would have been surprising enough in itself for her age, but, unsatisfied with only her native language, Polyxene decided to learn more. While Paris can barely recognize his own name in writing, the girl reads nesite and luwian with equal ease. Now, Helenos has been promising to teach her Ashur’s tongue, and the girl can hardly wait to begin.

   Helenos would have little trouble teaching the language of Kemet, either. He had spent about half a decade in a scribe school overseas. Sun God’s priest, knows a thousand things useful and useless. Never in a haste, never a spark in his eye. Might as well be sleepwalking through life.

   There is also, of course, insane Kassandra (curse her and her poisonous mouth), little Troilos, never too far from Hektor and Laodike, even smaller Polydoros – a late child, all the more beloved by his parents.

   A few advisors from Wilusa’s foremost families should never be overlooked, either: Antenor, Polydamas - too clever for his own good, wily Antimakhos…

   Somewhere in faraway lands exists patchwork Akhaia. Alashiya, rich in trade. Ancient Bab-Ilu, the Two Lands – even more ancient, eternal and unchanging - far to the south. The North is home to warlike Thrakians. There is also iron Hatti, of course, with the mighty labarna Muwatalli and his tawananna, who addresses Hekabe as her younger sister in her letters.

   Nobody ever cares how much simpler the former herdsman’s life had been before, on the slopes of ancient Ida, with Agelaos and his old woman at his side, demanding Oinone of the silver laughter always close by, her thighs shapely and strong like a doe’s.

   He wonders, not entirely idly, what Helen’s laughter might sound like. It has to be golden, he would bet. Testing that theory at last seems all too tempting.

*********************************************************************************************************************

\- What are you reading about, sunshine?

\- Hatti, sunset.

\- Very well, o little sister of mine, if you wish our conversation to be conducted in a lofty manner, so be it. What arcane mysteries does this vast store of knowledge in your possession illuminate in regards to the empire of Hatti, wise daughter of Priam?

\- What exactly has you so curious? History?

\- Partly. The more recent kind. But mostly current affairs. Some say, the labarna would have liked to receive more than what we have been giving him. Formal allegiance, perhaps.

\- You would do better to ask mother and father. For some reason, after Herakles invaded, the Hittites allowed us to get back on our feet, although a more perfect moment for destroying the Troad’s independence could hardly have been imagined. These days, Priam accepts the might of Hatti’s Sun and a certain amount of outside control as inevitable, unlike earlier.

\- Yes, people talk a great deal of the exploits of our father’s youth. It is natural for old men to drift towards peace, while the new generation finds the strength to fight in their stead.

\- The king’s peaceful inclinations are the bedrock, on which Wilusa’s prosperity stands, Paris. The labarna Muwatalli clashed with Kemet’s ruler some time ago, and, if you don’t trust me – ask Hektor, how formidable Hatti’s chariots are, how sharp their iron.

   Priam’s heir had been part of that campaign – the last time he left the Troad. Not because any agreements with the iron men demanded it, not due to a lack of young warlike nobles desperate for glory and the Sun’s approval, but, rather, because of unspoken expectations that endlessly follow spoken ones like the bakkhai trail their God’s footsteps.

   He distinguished himself more than any other young noble in the labarna’s army, earned Hattusili’s respect – Muwatalli’s brother is a wise man indeed – and never spoke of the battle.

   Neither distinction abroad nor a hero’s welcome at home gave him joy. Instead, he prayed that the sun God avert any more wars from Wilusa, while Hatti and Kemet reach an accord.

   Paris shakes his head. So many predators seeking likely prey. But is protecting the flock from wolves and lions not every herdsman’s trade?

   - So, the rumor that every Hittite infantryman has iron weapons is not just a rumor?

   - Now, that would have been a sight to behold. But no, that is not true, and what iron they do have is not always of the highest quality. But still, a lion is a lion even without wings or a pelt that cannot be pierced. Priam himself admits he was wrong to antagonize Hatti. This is not a power that can be challenged lightly.

   - Naturally enough, the heir to the throne agrees.

   - Hektor knows all too well the measure of independence we can realistically hold on to.

   - With that in mind, would throwing our lot in with Hatti not be a better option? Why strive to keep a hundred masters happy without fully satisfying either of them, if you can have certainty instead? Allies are allies, enemies are enemies, and he who threatens Wilusa would have the iron army to contend with. That is no small matter.

   Polyxena stops copying some unbelievably tiny cuneiform text onto a wooden tablet covered with wax, puts her tools away, shrugs discontentedly.

   - Even limited freedom and dignity are better than none at all, Paris. Besides, our current position is perfect for trade, why jeopardize that?

   - It always comes down to trade with you people.

   - Why not? Imagine this: textiles, copper, pottery, perfumes, olives and their oil, timber, finished works of all kinds of craftsmen – all this passes through Helle’s Sea! And, obviously enough, bit by bit all those things enrich the city that controls the trade routes.

   - Sooner or later, a man will appear who will decide that the Troad is a bit too rich, and ripe for the picking. This has happened before. Where Alkeides succeeded…

   - Others may well follow him, yes. Particularly from among warlike Ahhiyawans. Not out of the question. But the one you speak of was an exception to so many rules, while today his countrymen… well, they know little of siege warfare, what would they do about our walls, built by the Gods themselves? Additionally, shortly before your… arrival, guess who was the king’s guest? Menelaos, brother to Mykene’s wanax. For his part, he rules Sparta, which was suffering from a plague at that time. Menelaos received an oracle, ordering him to build temples and altars in Wilusa, and our father purified the guest with blood and flame. Fire from the Sun God’s main temple traveled to Lakedaimon, and all the household fires of the land were lit from that one torch. Quickly enough, the plague stopped. There is little to no reason for us to be wary of Ahhiyawa right now.

   - So, the Akhaians are not a threat. Why, then, do men speak of them as if they were?

   - Because they are. Potentially. If they are ever able to cooperate for more than a few days. Even Attarisias-Atreus could not achieve that – and the man had tried hard. Alas for them, what matters for Mykene is irrelevant to Pylos, whereas Knossian sailors might find it an obstacle. The current high wanax does have broad influence, mind you, and allies among his fellow chiefs, too. But that is not necessarily enough. As far as I am aware, nobody is in any haste to know what would happen should Mykene successfully force or convince her unruly neighbors to collaborate for once.

   - I would wager the worst they could do is more pirate attacks along the Asian coast, the islands, some ships intercepted at sea. You just dismissed them as a threat yourself.

   - There is more than one answer to most questions, Paris. Not all things are simple. Give those half-barbarians a goal, a cause that can bind them together – and they might surprise us all and do what your kin once did in Kemet.

   - My kin? 

\- The Hyksos people, about as sane as you are.

   - You and your jokes. Forget it, those Akhaians will gut each other after one tiny victory, over glory and plunder. Why fear men who kill each other because of a single helmet?

   - If you say so. Can we stop this conversation now, please? No reason to invite misfortune.

   A quick sign to ward off the evil eye. Silence.

   Meanwhile, Paris smiles. Intelligent as the princess may be, she is still no more than a girl. He might have been a herdsman until recently, but his understanding of the world is still better than hers. After all, the empire of Hatti is so very close, while the wanaktoi and baseleis across the Great Green have a hard time keeping their own people in line. What are you before the mighty East, Ahhiyawa?


	6. Diplomacy

   Paris was little surprised to receive the king’s summons. Surely, an acknowledged prince would not be kept on a leash indefinitely, but allowed to do something worthwhile eventually.

   As for the task itself – it turned out to involve an embassy to Sparta. The place Menelaos rules. The very same Sparta his Helen is queen of.

   This was not unexpected, either. The brilliant Goddess of Alashiya did promise a gift for that apple, after all, and why would she abandon Her devoted cowherd?

   Priam desires to improve relations with one of Ahhiyawa’s most influential leaders. After the Lakedaimonian basileus’ comparatively recent visit, it would not be out of place for the Troad to answer in kind. Highborn visitors, gifts as appropriate – the usual.

   Xenia, the sacred law of hospitality, the foundation of trust between guest and host, is, thankfully, adhered to both here and in Akhaia. Not a bad opportunity to observe what Paris is capable of without risking too much.

   So, the recently resurrected prince will be the one to befriend Menelaos.

   Priam did not invite his child for an audience in the palace, nor even within the city walls. They drove a chariot to a nearby meadow, and with the lush vista spread before his eyes, the young man could well forget the very existence of Wilusa’s tall fortifications or Ida’s thick woods.

   What if the only place that is real is this – dark-green hills, the smell of grass, horse herds with meticulously trimmed rich manes?

   Bays, chestnuts, blacks, duns, roans, dappled greys. Powerful older stallions, unruly young ones, swift-footed mares, mothers with defenseless foals. Some are relaxing, others running, grazing or drinking from a spring.

   There is some kind of quarrel between a chestnut stallion and a piebald, possibly the very same Hektor plans on training for his chariot. Both are full of fire and brimstone, with hooves heavy enough to trample bones in a flash. The smoke coming out of each animal’s nostrils might put some volcanoes to shame.

   Paris’ father spares not a glance for the young man. He seems completely taken – and satisfied - with the pastures and the horses.

   - Tell me, child, do you know what kind of gossip has been filling Wilusa these months?

   - Polyxene has recently taken an interest in the empire of Hatti, Antenor sent a slave with some texts she is now utterly immersed in. You know, Anittas, Hattusili, all the others…

   - I am not speaking of the citadel, but of the lower city. Although, the Pergamum has no shortage of those who agree with the common folk, either. You have not been paying attention.

   - To what?

   - The light of the torch. When my queen was pregnant with you, she suffered nightmares. The child she was to give birth to would become the flame of destruction for our tall capital, perhaps for the whole Troad. My and Arisbe’s eldest son, Aisakos, still lived then. A blessed child, he could hear the Gods, like Kassandra used to, and Helenos still does. Aisakos confirmed the dream as true.  That is why Agelaos was ordered to abandon you to die. While the people… they learned of this somehow. And they still remember.

   The young man arches a thin eyebrow disdainfully. Arisbe had given her husband a strange son indeed, who died under circumstances befitting a shepherd’s fate, rather than that of a prince, overtaken with grief after his nymph lover died. Never would Paris be as pathetic as that.

   What reason is there to trust him, and a pregnant woman’s delusions?

   - So, now they want to finish what wolves and bears did not.

   - Almost. Your voyage to Lakedaimon should give them enough time to quiet down. I promise to do what is in my power as well, with Hekabe’s help. Make use of the foreign chieftain’s hospitality: although not particularly powerful himself, Menelaos enjoys great influence for a number of reasons. Such friends are useful. Hopefully, you shall return to find a peaceful home, and be accepted without fear or disdain.

   - Hopefully. But what makes this Akhaia so fearsome, why do you value potential allies overseas so much? In Hattusa, there is a single lion ruling over all the beasts. But the barbarians will settle for nothing less than being lions themselves, every single one of the idiots. They are not much of a threat to others if they are their own worst enemies.

   - Are you about to utter such nonsense in Sparta?

   - No, my lord.

   - Good. Remember yourself. You sail in ten days. I have already arranged for proper gifts. Should Antenor help you with learning the Akhaian tongue?

   Before the prince could reply, a tiny hurricane nearly swept him off his feet.

   The disaster consisted of a young boy riding a black mare, followed by Laodike. The latter did not consider stopping the child and steed urgent business, more interested in the grey dappled horse she was leading, freshly bathed and groomed.

   - Daughter, this is no joking matter. Stop encouraging his antics. I wonder what would be the worse outcome: Troilos falling from the horse, or growing up to be a Thrakian.

   The girl’s grin merely grows wider at this, warm brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

   - He is more likely to grow up to be an Amazon, father. Unlike Thrakian warriors, those do not use chariots at all. But enough worrying, the rascal will, in fact, mature eventually. And by that time he will already be used to dealing with horses. Troilos is already halfway there, even if Frost here still doesn’t like him much.

   - Frost dislikes every human being in existence, aside from you. But enough of this japery. Did you take care of the gift meant for Lakedaimon’s ruler?

   - Of course I did. Would you like to see?

   Without waiting for the answer, the princess calls for the stable hands.

   Those appear quickly enough, leading a pair of stunning steeds – reddish-gold coats, like the sun itself, dark eyes, rich manes, impatient, youthful stride.

   Both have been gelded, however. No reason to give fertile stallions of the famous Dardanian breed to a petty kingling from Ahhiyawa.

   Paris shrugs. Losing such beautiful creatures might be disappointing, but, considering the number of horses in the royal herds, salvageable. But Laodike’s smile vanishes completely, while she strokes the animals’ necks. Who will care for them so gently far across the sea?

   One of the red equines, heedless of human concerns, takes a wild apple from the young woman’s extended hand. Whatever voyage lies ahead, there is no reason to miss out on a treat.

****************************************************************************************************************************

   Naturally enough, Paris is not allowed to travel on his own. Aineias, while officially merely a companion who does not head the embassy, is still somewhat older, and, therefore, tasked with preventing his inexperienced kinsman from dishonoring the house of Laomedon.

   The dardanian would do well to mind his own business. Both the ships are manned by simple folk, far more likely to obey the orders of Priam’s child, however outrageous, than those of a man who barely shows his face in Wilusa.

   Granted, he still is related to the royal line. Ancient Dardanos had a grandson – Tros, whose children were Ilos – Laomedon`s father, and Asarak – great-grandfather to Aineias. But such a flimsy lineage, and his own lack of notable deeds, prevented the would-be minder from becoming a threat to Paris’ enjoyment of the expedition.

   The younger man is, therefore, in high spirits, content with life and sure of himself. Even Aphrodite’s offspring, quiet and pliable for the time being, is not entirely irritating. As for a certain prophet... whatever portents of doom Helenos had suddenly seen, the he can join Kassandra and poor dead Aisakos in their merry chorus. The former herdsman would be damned should he allow doomsayers to sully his mood.

   Shoo, you crows.

   The day of arrival is festive enough to put wreaths on the heads of the whole crew.

   Menelaos Atreides turns out to be an excellent host. He receives the highborn Asians with grace, exchanges some witticisms with Aineias, who has been an acquaintance since well before the plague. The child of Priam, for his part, is forced to endure a whole barrage of questions, all to avoid discussing his uncanny birth, presumed death and return.

   The fair-haired akhaian manages to steer clear of that particular topic in public, until he is finally left alone with the guests. But first, he gives orders to the slaves, admires the gift horses without even noticing they are geldings, strokes their velvet foreheads, promises the Trojans a hunt on the reedy banks of Eurotas.

   That last one hardly sounds pleasant. How much excitement can a mediocre river in a backwards land provide?

   At last, the embassy is offered food, wine, lodging, time for rest and opportunity for much-needed bathing. Ahh, bliss!

   There are some interesting tales surrounding this basileus. Son to Pelopides Atreus, brother to Agamemnon, Mykene’s high king – on good terms with the latter, too. Which is not a given, considering the family history.

   Old Tyndareos, Helen’s mortal father, relinquished the scepter soon after his not-daughter’s marriage. Kastor and Polydeukes, the young queen’s elder brothers, are still a power to be wary of, but conveniently absent for the time being.

   Now, Atreus. What a man. Clashed with his own brother for rulership in Mykene – and, well, until one of them died, there was no rest. Not enough place in all of Akhaia for those two. What began with simple deception involving a seduced wife and a stolen golden lamb that represented kingship, eventually escalated into Atreus feeding Thyestes the latter’s own children – a crime even Helios refused to witness.

   Appetizing, no?

   Thyestes, not to be outdone, raped his own daughter to beget a cursed, wretched child, who was unknowingly raised by Atreus – and killed the man in the end.

   Such wholesome pastimes, cannibalism in particular, are a family tradition, it appears. Going back to Tantalos, an Arzawan king, father to Pelops, and grandfather to the two insane siblings. He had thought it a fine idea to kill his child and offer the flesh to the Gods.

   In return, the idiot’s punishment in the afterlife is particularly inventive, and not likely to end any time soon.

   Pelops was returned to life no worse for the wear, bar his shoulder, devoured accidentally by Demeter, who had been in no shape to pay attention to anything after Her own daughter’s disappearance.

   The boy became an adult in due time, attracted the Earthshaker’s affection, grew restless.

   Eventually, he found himself on what is now called the Isle of Pelops – despite being merely a peninsula.

   Waves crashing against the shore, a bride of surpassing fairness at his side in a wondrous chariot.

   So what, if he caused the death of Hippodameia’s father to win her hand? So what, if the curses of the man’s charioteer, Myrtilos, who had helped in the deed and was killed for his trouble, still hounded Pelops and would hound his descendants?

   It did not take long for said descendants, under King Eurystheus’ wing, to become a formidable force in Akhaia – scepters and palaces were their lot, not a foreigner’s usual obscurity.

   Paris smirks. It is natural for Tantalos’ civilized blood to reign over barbarians. Additionally – does the name Myrtilos not resemble Mursili, a name Hittite nobles frequently bear?

   When questioned, Menelaos merely shrugs. Of that time, he knows no more than his compatriots, and the Pelopidai, if they knew a whit more, never told. After Thyestes was taken by either disease or the Erynies, none remains who could separate truth from falsehood.

   Which is just as well: why allow the past to eclipse the present? It was not interest in foreign lineages that brought the Trojan envoys to Sparta.

   The evening feast is – o happy stars! – graced with Helen’s presence. She plays a few tunes on a kemetan harp, welcomes the guests with sweet words, busies herself with the servants, who hardly need the supervision – and, finally, the lady vanishes from the megaron, but remains firmly present in the cowherd’s imagination.

   He keeps picturing what he hungers for: the naked alabaster shoulders he never saw, a playful glance softened by long eyelashes, the taste of her kisses. What does the dark-blue veil, covered with golden doves, conceal? What is the smell of her fair hair like? Are her fingers, so skillful with harp strings, just as clever in more intimate endeavors?

   Paris needs to slip into the women’s quarters. Desperately. But on what pretense? Would, say, acting like he is curious to see Hermione, the royal couple’s daughter, work?

   A bad joke, if there ever was one. Who would want to see a two-year old, aside from her nannies? Besides, the tiny nuisance is noisy enough to be heard throughout the whole palace.

   For some reason, knowing that the queen is mother to another man’s offspring already, and that offspring is just as fat and satyr-loud as so many other children, does not make Helen less desirable.

   The prince idly wonders, when exactly he forgot his nymph’s name, which used to tinkle with her silver laughter.

   No matter, that one is but a footprint in the sand.

   Paris pretends to be a regular bumpkin (which is shamefully simple), curious about everything he sees (that part is much tougher). In a few days, he is a familiar sight all around the palace.

   Slipping into the part of the garden meant for women is almost a joke. Finally meeting the daughter of Zeus alone… is no joke at all.

   What is he to say? For once, the young man is glad to have learned the basics of Ahhiyawa’s crow-like tongue, with some help from Antenor and Aineias.

   Never taking his gaze off hers, which is the height of impropriety in any land he has heard of, reveling in the clear blue color so similar to the sky, Paris asks the most ridiculous question, as if it were oikumene’s greatest mystery.

   - My queen, they say you are no human woman, but a swan who pretends to be one, born from a golden egg. Is that true?


	7. Dry grass catching fire

   On his arrival to Knossos, a shadow of what used to be Krete’s foremost city, Menelaos has little time to waste. Everything has been prepared for his – and Agamemnon’s – grandfather’s funeral rites, and the two Atreidai are required to attend those in proper solemnity.

   The old king – Katreus – did not pass away peacefully. To die by his own son’s hand… what an unhappy man.

   Agamemnon and Menelaos had no choice, but to abandon all and hasten to the island of Minos. The dead do not wait – particularly not in this summer heat. Not to mention, the body had to be transported all the way from Rhodos, where Katreus met his end.

   - What an abysmal favour Althaimenes did me. His old man had never been particularly ambitious, neither is Deukalion, but Deukalion is likely to pass the throne to our dear friend Idomeneus, and you know how that old fox thinks. Might well decide to remind us all about Krete’s ancient mastery of the sea, now that most of the power here is within his grasp.

   - You say mastery, I say history. The thalassocracy of Minos is in the past. But khaire, Agamemnon, am I glad to see you, despite the unfortunate circumstances. You never change.

   - Oh, forgive my nonexistent manners. How have you been, brother? I hear Sparta is finally recovering from that plague.

   - All true, thank Paian. The oracle’s words were interpreted correctly. These days, it’s my turn to entertain Trojan guests. Aineias brought someone very curious.

   - Wait a moment, is there trouble in the Troad now?

   - No, they just want to improve relations. But not badly enough to offer unrestrained passage through the Hellespontos for our trade ships. That is still out of the question.

   - Sounds like Priam alright. Friends are not exempt from being fleeced.

   Menelaos nods, but there is little that can be done about the matter. Why linger?

   - Have you heard of their recently discovered prince? He’s the one heading the embassy.

   - I have, but he doesn’t appear to be a cause for concern. The city dislikes him quite a bit, while Hektor is as well loved as ever.

   - True, this Paris is nothing to worry about. But the story still sounds eerily familiar. Abandoned in the wilds, saved and raised unaware of his ancestry. Now, Dardanides and Hekabe suddenly forget why they disposed of him in the first place, and accept him back.

   - Well, why had they, then?

   - The queen had a bad dream, foretelling disaster.

   - Is this the second coming of Oidipous, or something? This story reeks.

   - Like Python himself, but that is Wilusa’s concern, not ours.

   With that, both the Atreidai make a sign to ward off misfortune, the Spartan ruler additionally touching his clay amulet.

   Terrible time to be discussing sinister oracles. It feels as though something grey and heavy flew through Krete’s clear air. One of the priests, who had no way of hearing the royal conversation, shuddered all of a sudden. Gods be gracious, why?

   The elder brother binds his black hair securely, washes his hands, prepares to perform his part of the rite. There is a whole troupe of female mourners, of course – few of them related to the deceased. Once they are done, it is time for the sacrifice. Black sheep, two black bulls. Barley, salt, a libation of unmixed wine, blodbloodblood…

   All of this – in the shadow of the horns of consecration, which belong to that great Bull, Who shakes the earth and rouses the sea. The shadow is long, far too long, allowing for no escape.

   The sons of faithless Aerope barely remember the daughter of Katreus. The old man himself had been little more than a stranger. Why, then, are their ears still full of shrill wailing well after the women fell silent, why can their eyes see nothing but grey and red?

   According to those in the know, Althaimenes lost his mind once it became apparent who he killed. Threw himself into a chasm.

   Knowing that his father was doomed to die by his own progeny’s hand, the man had desperately tried to escape fate. Ended up on Rhodos. But Katreus – he decided to search for his disappeared heir.

   A splendid success. Some idiot mistook his ships for those of pirates, which had the islanders armed and ready to fight sooner, than one can say “Helios”. Althaimenes, naturally, was part of that force.

   Oidipous, you wretched ancient shade, disappear at last. Is your fate bound to repeat itself?

   The sacrificial dagger is satiated. There is red everywhere. The world belongs to the living once again. But is there much of a difference between a black bull and a white one, is the sheep’s fate any kinder if, once killed, it is eaten instead of burned completely?

   Nobody asks. It is the lot of cattle to die in silence.

**************************************************************************************************************************

   She can not keep silent anymore. Paris is waiting for – demanding – an answer. But what can Helen say to him?

   Here, on the reedy banks of Eurotas, is her whole life. Friends she has known since childhood, the old willow tree that offered solitude and comfort when humans could not, the hunting forays with Polydeukes and Kastor she still misses so much. Here is tiny Hermione. Menelaos, who never once dishonored her, always stood by her. So many reasons to remain. Only one reason to leave.

   This fire inside, golden Aphrodite’s suffocating will.

   The queen’s fingers linger on a column painted red and black. On a thronos-chair, decorated with ivory plaques depicting griffins. She finds it barely possible to breathe.

   Some highborn hunter is aiming a bow from his chariot. The lion he is about to shoot seems unsure, whether to run for dear life, or turn back and leap at the attacker, tearing out his throat. This is just a useless painting on the wall, but…

   Kastor’s favorite painting. He had invented a name and backstory for the hunter, and, when his sisters were little, of course they heard quite a bit of this remarkable fresco’s exploits.

   The son of Priam prepares for departure with a smile, as if Helen’s decision were already made. Does he think he knows her better, than she does herself? Is he correct?

   The swan-begotten woman has a daughter. She has a mother, and an earthly father, too. Siblings – the Dioskouroi and Klytaimnestra. Then, there is her siser’s husband. The wanax of Mykene. That one sees far, and weaves a complicated web indeed, extensive enough to cover the island of Pelops and more.

   Agamemnon, the shepherd of men, is ruthless. Menelaos is hardly forgiving, either. If those two desire vengeance – all of windy Troad shall learn fear.

   There is more, of course. Stronger than the web of Mykene, than Akhaia’s readiness to answer warlike Enyo’s call whenever it is raised, more insidious, than the guest’s planned crime against his host. Ananke’s heady brew does not lack for spice even more poisonous.

   The oath of the suitors, may it burn the tongues that took it.

   She remembers them all. The two Aiantes with their inappropriate jokes – Telamonides and Oilides, inseparable and so dissimilar, with Teukros the bowman always nearby, if not always glad to be a part of some new insanity. Diomedes – all too sane and mature for his age. Patroklos’ effortless charm. The double-sided labrys axe an attendant carried after Idomeneus anywhere the Minotaur’s nephew went. Glib Palamedes, only ever distracted from a new and exciting idea by a fresher one, never by human voice. Tlepolemos – child of great Herakles himself. Sthenelos, so quick to anger, quicker yet to calm down. Protesilaos of Phylake, cocky and competitive. And so many more.

   Of high birth, every last one of them. There was power behind each of the princes, even if it was not equal. And they all wanted the swan-born maiden, for one reason or another.

   Heroes, oh, heroes. Well-born, well-armed. Who knows, which feast or friendly competition will end with Ares arriving for a visit, entourage in tow.

   Odysseus of Ithake had been one of the suitors, although he had little hope for success, being heir to a few unimportant islands and lacking deeds to boast of. Therefore, he decided to be content with a duck in the pond, while the swan in the sky escaped his snares only to find herself caught in those of another suitor.

   Tyndareos, cornered by the pack of predators who called themselves Helen’s suitors, was desperate for a way out. The ithakan offered him one, only asking for a bride of his own in exchange. Helen’s cousin, daughter of Ikarios, Penelope by name. Who would have refused?

   The plan had seemed perfection itself. All those who competed for the swan-begotten maiden’s hand, took an oath, sealed by the blood of a sacrificed horse. Whoever the daughter of Zeus chose, the others would never seek revenge for their defeat. Moreover, they would defend his and Helen’s honour, if needed.

   A shared sacrifice, blood staining every man’s hands – may heaven know, may Tartaros hear. May he who breaks the oath know no respite or release.

   “Whoever she chooses”. This had not been difficult to accept. Many were assured of their victory, the rest were simply sick of waiting for any decision at all. It is not the custom of heroes to be patient. Each of them may as well have a wildfire behind his back, driving him on without respite.

   She chose Menelaos – for many reasons, and never had any grounds to regret the decision. But now, that oath of forty suitors resounds again, filling the megaron with the voice of trumpets.

   The noblemen of Akhaia do not forget easily, particularly not when War raises its voice. They do not take kindly to being made into fools, nor to losing what is theirs. Even less kindly they take to violations of the sacred law of hospitality.

   Is it not the Gods who protect this holy custom? Has the Alashiyan Goddess not taken Helen by the hand, leading away to distant Wilusa? Then, it is for Her to look after those consumed by Her flame.

   Hermione is sleeping so sweetly. Good, it should be easier to abandon her this way. But she shall take some of the handmaidens with her. Devoted Klymene, and the mother of Theseus, Aifra. Since Kastor and Polydeukes captured her while the great Athenian was accompanying his friend Peirithoos on his foray to the Underworld, the old woman has been Helen’s attendant.

   Fair is fair – Theseus had stolen Helen, after all, and Peirithoos had expected to steal Persephone Herself for his wife.

   Only the Athenian ruler returned, whereas his friend remained, but even the former did not linger for long. Now that he is gone – who can Aifra turn to?

   Enough.The Trojans shall take the Spartan queen’s dowry to the ships. She shall follow. No more excuses, no more lin-lin-lingering. All will be well.

   In her way to the ships, the swan-begotten maiden does not look back on her former palace even once. Perhaps, she has a wildfire of her own, trailing her footsteps, leaving nothing but ashes.

************************************************************************************************************************************

   There are two riders on silver horses rushing through the night, ghost-like and silent. Each one accompanied by a young woman holding on for dear life, afraid that the mad gallop has become eternal. It might well have.

   The wind’s roar resembles that of a wildfire.

   The Dioskouroi, descendants of Zeus - although one of them happens to be Tyndareos’ mortal child. This would have been more remarkable had the same thing not happened with Iphikles and Herakles, who were twins as well, one born of the Thunderer, the other to a human’s fate. Such things simply happen. Questioning merely leads to more confusion.

   They never grew up, those two. More than thirty years had not been enough. But, throughout all that time, they have been inseparable no matter what, a single spirit inhabiting two bodies.

   Even now, the siblings just would not leave alone two dark-eyed maidens, daughters of Leukippos. Accustomed to having what they wanted, they took Hilaeira and Phoibe by force. But, while the girls’ opinion and that of their weak father could easily be ignored, the Leukippidai were not without protectors. Their intended husbands, Idas and Lynkeus, were not ones to stand idly by when offended. Stubborn little…

   The sons of Aphareus are, ridiculously enough, also twins. They used to be on amiable terms with the Dioskouroi, a merry little pack of troublemakers. But… that is in the past.

   It had not taken long for Lynkeus and Idas to realize what happened. They promptly stopped searching for their cattle, which had earlier been stolen by the spartans as a distraction. Instead, the Apharetidai hastened after the thieves, deprived of a much more valuable prize.

   Lynkeus has always boasted of his uncanny eyesight – with good reason. Avoiding his notice for much longer is a vain hope. Besides, neither the humans nor the horses can go without rest.

   The Messenian lands are close enough to those of Lakedaimon, but none of the rivals are in any haste to get there. The Apharetidai are well aware, that, once in Sparta, their brides will be lost to them once and for all. The other pair of twins, for their part, would have cheated themselves out of victory, if they never faced their enemy in proper battle.

   Therefore, Kastor and Polydeukes eventually decide they are done playing games. They stop their stallions, and await their pursuers.

   Meanwhile, the exhausted girls huddle beneath an oak tree, rough bark and leaves their refuge, each other’s embrace their shield. Flimsy? Yes, but for the moment the warmth of a sister’s hands is the only reality in the world for each of them. Neither can so much as think of letting go.

   Later, when the daughters of Leukippos leave this accursed place in silence, heading towards the nearest settlement, there shall be no one left to spare them so much as a glance.

   The descendants of Aphareus waste little time in finding the four. Not even enough to seek out a herm and thank the God of Kyllene for not letting the thieves escape. Although, perhaps, considering His predilections, Hermes may well have more sympathy for the daring criminals, than for their victims. One can never tell for sure with Him.

   The men tie their horses to different branches of a single tree, like they used to in the past. It’s not like the animals have any reason to quarrel, no matter what happens between humans.

   Then – it begins. Bronze meets bronze, determination clashes with determination.

   Idas charges at Kastor, but to little effect – not even a hair is cut. A step back. A thrust. Another one – anger barely contained. None of them is wearing any armour – which would have been dead weight in any case.

   Kastor tries to trip his opponent – only to find himself on the defensive again. Time for the shield to do its job.

   Polydeukes, meanwhile, has lost his long-shadowed spear. Has to make do with a short sword – which, admittedly, is one of his favorite weapons. Close combat is best. The son of Zeus knows how to turn an enemy’s superior reach against him. Besides, Lynkeus is wounded already.

   Closer, closer, a snow leopard moving in for the kill. A strike! Missed the throat, but the Apharetides is disoriented, so let’s lunge at him, pinning him to the ground with a five-layered shield and Polydeukes’ own considerable weight.

   Oh. This looks like a very broken ribcage. Lynkeus’ eyes are wild with shock.

   A scream. Two men at once. The other twin?

   No. Yes. Nononono. Your twin, Polydeukes.

   He rushes to Kastor’s side in a flash, barely registering the presence of Idas – and when he does register, it is only to hurl a giant rock at him. Try to recover from this one, will you?.

   - Hold on, Kastor! Please hold on, there has to be something…

   But there is nothing that can be done. The mortal brother’s face is a chalk-pale mask of agony, each breath more labored than he previous one, intestines spilling out of that vicious gut wound.

   For an instant or two, his eyes regain focus, and, with the last of his strength, Kastor…

   - Behind you, - more croak than voice, but still enough of a warning.

   The God-born twin turns around just in time to meet Idas’ sword with the man’s own spear, covered with Kastor’s blood – now drinking that of its owner with no reservations.

   The rock had not been enough. No matter. Somebody here seems to enjoy the sight of another man’s guts. How about introducing him to his own? This shall not end with one stab.

   Having disposed of his enemy, Polydeukes returns to his brother’s side. Time is running out, escaping like water from a broken jug. Drop by heavy drop, breath by breath, slowly, but surely. No human healer can reverse this, there is no more strength in the dying man’s body, and the living one feels himself grow just as limp and empty.

   Without thinking, he calls for his father. A disjointed, broken prayer on impure land, at a time that belongs to the Khtonic Lords. Everything is wrong. But – so what?

   The ruler of Olympos has heard this plea. Here He stands: mighty, broad-shouldered, black beard barely touched by grey. Limited, almost human, form containing more power than should be possible.

   - What is it, son? – He asks in a voice far too soft for one accustomed to being thunder itself.

   - You see what happened. Be merciful, save Kastor now.

   - You two have brought this upon yourselves. Understand, and accept inevitability.

   - Why, then, are our punishments different? – Polydeukes tries to scream, but can only rasp.

   - The son of Tyndareos belongs to the Underworld already. If you wish, you may follow him. Otherwise, you may choose to follow me to bright Olympos, for there is nothing tying you to the mortal world anymore. The decision is yours.

   Immortality. Storms in his blood. Let somebody else have it, if they want.

   - The former. I am not going anywhere without him.

   Zeus approaches then, putting His palm on Polydeukes’ head. Instantly, there is a bolt of lightning piercing the man, turning blood and sinew to so much vapor.

   Then, the forked lightning moves onto the mortal twin, binding the siblings with something more enduring even, than their former bond. And, impossibly, Kastor breathes once again.

   - If you would share the same fate, let it be so – but fairly. From now on, you both belong to death for half of the year, to eternity – for the other half.

   And so it happens. The constellation of the Twins shines brightly above the world: Polydeukes the fist fighter, Kastor the horse-tamer. They travel – shoulder to shoulder - between the heavens and a shared kenotaph in Therapne, and eventually people begin calling on them for help. Contests, war, travel by land and sea. Particularly that last one: the twins were - are - excellent sailors.

   When there is ghostly fire on the masts and rigging – without a doubt, the Dioskouroi are nearby.


	8. Eris and Eirene

   Khaire - rejoice now, Mykene, far-famed for your gold and ruthless bronze, tall walls and solemn tholos tombs, heavy shields and swift chariots. But – woe mars your glory, for even wider is the fame of the Pelopidai’s unappeasable curse.

   Those descended from the son of Tantalos, killed and brought back to life, exile and welcome guest, betrayed and traitor – still bear an unmistakable ivory- white mark on their shoulders.  

   That foul feast’s smell has reached distant lands indeed, and lingered for far too long. Some say, it may have been better had the children of Leto deprived Pelops of descendants altogether, as had been done to his elder sister Niobe – the man might have followed her example in turning to stone because of grief, but the world would have been spared so much poison.

   That foreign family’s rise to power in this half-barbarian land had seemed so effortless, after Eurystheus fell at the hands of the Herakleidai. But those who fear no enemy shall be brought down by a friend.

   It never grew quiet – the voice of Myrtilos the charioteer, forever cursing his murderer, nor the echoes of Atreus and Thyestes’ bitter enmity, hounding the next generation without mercy.

   Crime after crime. The daughter and victim of Thyestes killing herself with his sword, that same sword in her unnatural child’s hands, giving swift death to him who raised the boy…A red river overflowing, blood begetting blood, evil followed by evil, children no more than actors in a play written long before their time.

  Miasma, abhorrent to Gods and humans alike – rust on bright metal, soot on exquisite fabrics, scarlet-stained hands.

   Not all filth is easy to wash away. Miasma slips into the tiniest crack, waits unseen, consumes everything it touches. In the end, no matter how much one’s path twists and turns, it is still bound to coil into a spiral named inevitability. Cycle after cycle, history cannot help but repeat itself.

   Curses, spirals, doom and gloom – forget about those. The road to Mykene is well-built, the sun reigns in its zenith, the crowds are noisy and lively. Hardly the hub of the world, but close enough for Akhaia.

   Menelaos leaves his chariot near the Lion Gate, in the care of his retinue. Wastes some time listening to a singer, who is entertaining the townsfolk with a story so ancient it is hard to recognize. Good voice, terrible phorminx, old and imperfectly crafted. So, Atreides sends a soldier to procure a new instrument from a decent craftsman, and a warm cloak besides. Then, without waiting for the task to be carried out, he heads straight to the palace, every single heavy step reminding him of the reason for this unseasonable journey.

   Talthybios the herald shows little to no surprise at his visit. So what, if no more than a few days passed since his lord spoke to his brother? So what, if both still smell of kretan pines?

   He informs the wanax of the unexpected arrival in his customary booming voice. The Atreidai meet in the middle of the megaron, throne forgotten, the planned daily ritual along with it.

   A servant girl, who had just brought in the lion-head rhyton full of wine for the libations, hides behind somebody bigger in distress. Is the wine still needed? Should she stay or leave? There is red liquid slowly trickling down the golden beast’s maw. Ruby drops all over the floor.

   - What happened in Sparta, beloved by Zeus? And do not say it took you but a few days to miss my company, I know this is serious, - Agamemnon demands.

   - She has been stolen. Helen, I mean. Paris took her. By the time I arrived, there was no sign of them. Nobody offered any resistance, and the servants are spewing nonsense.

   - What kind of nonsense? Also, have you sent ships after them?

   The fair-haired Atreides grabs the rhyton before the servant girl can protest, glugs down the ceremonial wine without feeling the taste. If the ancestors take offence – let them.

   - Of course I have. There is also a search for Polydeukes and Kastor, those two should be informed. But nobody has seen them in a few moths. As for the servants, they insist they were asleep. As well as the stable hands, soldiers, singers, every last one of them. Convenient coincidence, no?

   - Well, your runaways are bound to resurface somewhere.

   - Out of reach, most likely. The Dioskouroi might have been able to catch up, tame the stormy waves – but no one else. Have you been listening at all?

   - Your men are failures, the twins have disappeared at the worst possible moment, your wife and her lover must have found somewhere to hide by now. What do you want me to do?

   - It would be best if we demand Helen’s return together. Your word is weightier than mine. Priam is bound to agree. There is no way he expected something like this to happen.

   - Is the boy foolish enough to sail for Wilusa any time soon? That is the last place they would go, Menelaos. Search the islands, if you enjoy wasting time.

   - Yes, but, sooner or later, the criminal will head to the Troad, and the royal family…

   - Is sure to either make reparations, or, better yet, refuse.

   - Better? What are you talking about?

   - If they offer sanctuary to him who stole the Thunderer’s daughter, and become accomplices to this impiety, what worthier pretext for war could we dream of? Xenia’s sacred trust has been broken, the former suitors surely still remember their oath, and for the rest, there is the promise of the Troad’s considerable riches, and control over Helle’s Sea. For once, Akhaia shall know unity beneath Mykene’s scepter, even if it is temporary. Thank you, dearest brother, your misfortune is truly a blessing in disguise.

   - Give thanks to the Gods for that, if you wish. I see no reason to. It does not have to come to all-out war. Dardanides shall not spit on the divine laws by harboring a bandit. He is a rational man who values peace and the prosperity it brings. Now, this newfound so-called prince… you know, while he took Helen’s dowry along with her, the bastard left the two horses of Dardanian stock he had brought as a gift of friendship. His idea of a joke.

   The elder Atreides cannot help but smirk. It’s not his fault the stunt does happen to be entertaining. Somebody knows how to leave an impression.

   Meanwhile, there is another matter to attend to. Klytaimnestra, Agamemnon’s wife. A servant is sent to inform her of Helen’s disappearance, willing or otherwise. 

   Not that the sisters had ever been close even as children, and certainly not after the daughter of Tyndareos married Mykene’s previous wanax – only to become a widow and the bride of her husband’s killer soon afterwards. But it is her right to know, so know she shall.

   At last, the real task at hand. Talthybios busies himself with preparing the embassy, every single detail is discussed thoroughly, taking into consideration both a peaceful approach and an aggresive one. They should tread lightly, in case the king does indeed desire reconciliation. It would not do to subject both sides to the oikumene’s ridicule due to blind haste.

   What the high wanax fails to mention, is this: the lack of prominent nobles in the embassy might also anger Priam, making him more open to choosing war.

   Not that Agamemnon minds.

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   Sandy Pylos welcomes the Atreidai with the same tranquility it offers any other visitor. Time might as well be standing still here. A place where the ruler knows his trade very well, passing that experience on to the next generation.

   Or the one after that, and the next one is just about ready to join in. Neleides Nestor, the Gerenian horseman, who had known Herakles and Meleagros, is in no haste to surrender the throne.

   Why would he? The man is justly regarded as wisest among Akhaia’s chieftains, and his advice weighs more than gold.

   Even without taking into consideration the city’s wealth and power, securing Nestor's assistance is absolutely necessary.

   Alas, due to old age, he had not taken part in the contest for Helen’s hand. Therefore, he is not bound by any oath. Hardly a man quick to submit to brute force, either.

   Therefore, it is time for persuasion. But, burdened by more than fifty winters, of what consequence would he find other men’s quarrels?

   Shuffle. Shuffle. Step by step, a procession painted on the wall continues its endless journey. The palace is full of colour, of crackling fire in Hestia’s hearth.

   As Menelaos’ grievances are properly explained, the head scribe is scandalized enough to drop his stylus, while the city elders exchange worried looks.

   Certainly, those who break divine laws deserve retribution. No one would question that. If the king of Wilusa decides to stand in the way of justice, the whole city shall be held responsible. Akhaia has no right to overlook such an affront. Not when the daughter of Zeus Himself has been stolen by either force or seduction.

   At the very least, a show of military force is in order – while Eirene speaks, it is for Eris to accompany her. Aulis is already teeming with ships and soldiers, rallied by Helen’s former suitors. The message: all the wanaktoi and basileis are prepared to let bronze speak, should words fail. Pylos is expected to join.

   But still – the very idea of a large-scale war! Small ones have been the norm, but this is a different matter. Have Pylos and Gerene no need for their young men? Is there not enough trouble as it is – pirates stalking the Great Green, bandits, fierce Dorians in the north, led by the Herakleidai, iron fangs bared.

   Threatening the Troad? It would have been better to mind Akhaia’s own safety. As long as she is powerful, her enemies shall remain incoherent, keeping them under control mere child’s play. But should the wolves smell weakness, notice a carelessly bared throat – well, what becomes of a calf made sluggish by the summer heat?

   A tasty meal for the predators.

   Agamemnon insists that a unified response to the Wilusan prince’s actions will show their strength clearly enough. Who would underestimate an Akhaia that speaks with a single voice? Besides, the war is still no more than a possibility. Most likely, the fugitives shall be returned – while the gathering army merely serves to hasten that outcome.

   - We would have been fools, had we expected to succeed without your wisdom and the might of your city, Neleides. Should you refuse, we may as well surrender to save ourselves further humiliation. With your guidance, however, victory is all but assured, and through that victory lies the path to a new Akhaia, unified and mighty, rather than the Khimaira we have at present.

   Clearly, Atreides is in top form today. The grey-haired Gerenian horseman considers his options very carefully. An attractive enough rhetoric, but how much has gone unmentioned?

   The wisest course of action would be to refuse assistance on a likely pretext, or limit interference as much as possible, abandoning other cities to bleed themselves dry. But – what next? Enemies, civilized and barbarian alike, would not pass up such an opportunity. Standing against them alone is impossible. For better or worse, Akhaia’s proud cities need each other.

   - The empire you speak of, even if feasible, may be a curse rather than a blessing. Atreus aimed to make the other rulers dependent on him, yet look where it led him. Forgive me for speaking so of your father, but that is the truth. On the other hand, there may not be a choice. Both the mainland and the islands are whipping themselves into a frenzy, Krete is building new well-tarred ships… what is old age to do, besides support the folly of youth, lest that folly lead to ruin. Very well. May Hestia’s hearth and Poseidon’s salty waves be my witnesses, Pylos pledges allegiance to you in this endeavor.

   - I swear you will not regret it, Nestor!

   - Do not make promises you can not keep, wanax of golden Mykene. Some deeds are too great and terrible to not end in bitter regret. Right now, I see before me Aitolian Kalydon, I hear keening in the house of Oineus. We shall pay the price of greatness. But you have received my answer, so now let us share food and drink. Our plans can be discussed in detail afterwards. Antilokhos, Thrasymedes, do try to stay mostly sober during the feast, your father shall have need of you afterwards. I am no young man anymore, so you must be my hands and feet. If the high king has forgotten Euboia, you two are to visit Nauplios on his island. Let us prepare for war, children, for, even had Agamemnon truly desired to avoid it, the world would hardly obey.


	9. Troubled waters

   To be entirely honest, Kemet was not a place Helen expected to become one of the stops on her voyage to Wilusa – assuming the latter is even still the intended destination. Even less expected was the involvement of a bona fide pirate fleet. Polydeukes and Kastor would have been amused to no end.

   There are men from Alashiya, Lazba, a motley of islands the swan-begotten cannot name. There are new ships, captured by Paris by the grace of Aphrodite Euploia. Day by day, this fleet is growing. Recently, a crew of sea brigands joined, which has been waylaying trading vessels for several years. Five ships, although only two of those are any good. Their captain is an experienced man, used to the Great Green more than he could ever be to Gaia’s embrace.

   He has an excellent hideout – a tiny island with a natural harbour well protected by cliffs, with barely any inhabitants. Grazing goats, enough freshwater streams – perfect. The runaway queen spent several moons there with a small retinue, while her lover was away raiding.

   Until, of course, he decided to show her Kemet proper, starting with the Delta. There had been a lot of boasting involved, including a promise to enter the capital itself. Tremble, o ancient land, as you never did before!

   She longs to visit so many places. But most of all - the White-Walled city, Scales of the Two Lands, fabled and sublime, beloved by Ptah. Flamboyant palaces, magnificent temples, multistoried houses of noble families – hardly anything superhuman, unless one believes the most absurd tales. There is no shortage of wonders in Akhaia, on Krete, on Alashiya, rich in copper. But those, who have laid eyes upon Kemet’s greatest jewel, speak of it as if they were spellbound.

   The Two Lands have architects, sculptors, artists, goldsmiths of incomparable skill, and, for all the grandeur of hundred-gated Waset or the new capital’s bustle, the city of white walls is their true masterpiece. How radiant you are, sacred Men-Nefer on generous Hapi!

   They never see it, of course. Not even from afar. All the sailors, both those from the Troad and he islanders he picked up, laughed at Paris’ delusions from the very beginning.

   This did not, however, prevent them from going along with the plan. Why not? Excitement, rich plunder – everything young men dream of before the realities of a sailor’s life teach them to be content with less. Besides, the merchant ships carry enough wondrous treasure for everyone, Kemetic and kushite items worth a fortune each. No need to be bashful!

   Usermaatre Setepenre, the great ruler – may health, long life and strength attend him – could not help but take note of the nuisance. But dealing with it personally would have been beneath his dignity. The pirates were forced to retreat by regular soldiers, helped by neither the hero of Qadesh his own grand self, nor his tame lion, named Slayer of his Enemies – just like he king’s previous pet beast.

   Failure led to a significant decrease in crude jests and drinking.

   This place has unfairly capable bowmen, sharp arrows, biting sickle-swords. How many of those, who had recently feasted and drank with everyone else, now lie dead on the shores of Kemet? Nobody wants to count.

   The king’s officers, on the other hand, are only happy to tally their victims. The traditional method is cutting off every fallen foe’s right hand, or, for some people who do not practice circumcision, penis. Very practical.

   Paris is unperturbed. How was he to know he makes a terrible raider, unless he tried? And his time was hardly wasted, either. The fleet managed to acquire truly impressive riches – the lion’s share for himself and his lady, many valuables to divide among the pirates, exquisite gifts for the royal family.

   Aineias stays silent for now, brow furrowed, disapproving glare rarely leaving the oblivious lovebirds. It would have been better to bind them both and leave at Menelaos’ doorstep, but how?

   The dardanian feels like a dog that has changed a dozen of masters, every single one of them demanding something different. Perhaps barking at the full moon would suit him well by now.

   Priamides, meanwhile, wastes little time deliberating on the future. The Great Green shines seductively, time itself is on their side: eventually, Akhaia will get bored of its own rage, while Wilusa is bound to forget all those ill omens, as Priam promised. But for now…

   Naturally, the best garments and ornaments that fell into their hands ended up in Helen’s possession. Whether those can make her more beautiful, or it is she that makes them shine, is entirely debatable. He sees blue lotuses blooming in her eyes, red ones on her lips. There is lapis-lazuli, turquoise and carnelian, but the former cowherd yearns for newer colours.

   On a pleasant morning, having made up his mind, Paris lazily asks the swan-begotten lady what she knows of Phoenician Sidon, which is about to be honoured with her presence next.

   Helen keeps the true answer to herself – but she thinks, a part of her – the greater part – remained on the banks of Hapi, perhaps intent on seeing ancient Men-Nefer at last.

**************************************************************************************************************************************

   The bear is young, strong and very frustrated. What beast would be happy to encounter an intruder near his favorite river? By Artemis, the fish catch had been so good this morning, too.

   The intruder is swift, focused and soaking wet. Young - still not even fourteen. He is also hungry. For meat, blood, action, the taste of victory – you name it.

   The bear is strong, but ridiculously reckless. When it lunges at the boy in blind haste, he evades the attack, leaps onto a slippery stone in the middle of the river – shallow, but so very rapid - aims his javelin at the angry ursine face. If he can irritate it even further…

   Luck is on his side. The bear, fearful of the sharp stick but unwilling to retreat, eventually makes a wrong move, loses its balance and falls into the water with a giant splash.

   The human was barely able to remain on his precarious perch, too. Before the water spray can die down, he finishes his luckless enemy off, giving it no time to regain its bearings. His weapon finds the animal’s throat without trouble.

   Of course, it gets stuck. The victim’s wild death throes break the shaft in two, leaving only half of it in the killer’s hands. Then – silence.

   This unnatural, grey quiet is finally broken by a soft rustling in the distance. Very, very deliberate. Heavy breathing. Four feet… no, hooves. How familiar.

   The young man doesn’t turn around. Of course, his teacher is announcing his presence. Had he wanted to, he would have appeared without warning, as if out of thin air. He does that.

   The youngster is busy. He drags the mass of flesh that used to be a living being out of the shallow stream. Smaller children treat old playthings this way, stubbornly holding on to something that has become useless.

   Well, the beast can be skinned, at least. But first – a treat.

   He cracks the skull open with a jagged stone, and slips his fingers inside to find something moist and sticky.

   This used to be somewhat gross, but now he simply enjoys the taste. Besides, they say an animal’s brain or heart hold all its strength and courage. You eat those, you get a share. The question is – does the same hold true for humans? Just an idle musing, honestly.

   When the ancient kentaur finally energes from the forest, the boy looks up from his feast – face filthy, smile guileless and out of place.

   - Khaire, teacher. Where have you been? It seems I need a new javelin.

   - Sooner or later, you shall have need of a great deal more than that, Akhilleus. But for now, your mother requires your presence. You are to leave Pelion.

   The boy gasps. Thetis does not visit often, true, but she never found Kheiron’s teachings lacking in any way. Perhaps, she may have preferred to see her child among the undying, but Peleus had prevented his wife from burning away Akhilleus’mortality.

   Offended, the Nereid abandoned them both to their fleeting fate. Yet, when the time came for her son to begin training away from home, she agreed, that the kentaur patriarch’s knowledge and skill have few rivals.

   Trust is not an issue, either, considering that Peleus owes Kheiron his life. So why?

   - She would not be demanding this without good reason, I am certain. But let us go, dear student, you shall ask Thetis yourself. Perhaps she has foreseen something again.

   - If she has, I bet it’s even worse than the last time. Wasn’t it bad enough?

   Kheiron gently touches the copper-haired boy’s shoulder, not entirely convinced he won’t be bitten for his trouble. Ahh, if only he could honestly say there is no reason for distress.

   Unhappy child. The Nereid has predicted for him a choice between two possible fates. One – glory bright as a falling star, and just as brief. Two – long and peaceful obscurity. He shall have to decide on the path he is to take eventually, but – now? Too early. Not ready.

   Nereus’ radiant daughter does not wish her own flesh and blood any ill. Her love may be a melancholy tune, but it is still very real. But once Akhilleus leaves Pelion, the oikumene shall claim him, mark him for death even as he begins to learn what life is, and there shall be no going back. Who knows, Peleides might well make the first step himself.

   The old kentaur, child of Kronos, has taught far too many heroes. In a way, the tiny realm of wooded Pelion, with its streams, pines, that spacious cave – does not exactly belong to the world. It has changed little since the Golden Age, and is likely to remain so forever.

   A dozen, a hundred, perhaps a thousand Akhilleuses shall come, only to leap back into the river of time. How many more shall surrender to the current, how many – redheaded, black-haired, golden – shall be buried beneath the waves before their locks go grey?

   The teacher’s fate, meanwhile, is bound to this timeless place, and the best he can do is prepare them, himself remaining on the banks of the great stream. How can this ever be enough?

   Ah. There he goes. A student who excels at killing and singing of glory. He has learned other things as well, but with little passion. If only there was more time…

   - Take heart, young man. She may have merely decided you need a different education.

   - Well, I don’t. I want you to teach me, do you hear?

   Unfortunately, the kentaur can hear all too well. It does not matter.

   - Akhilleus, please, before you meet your mother - make sure to wash the brains off your face.


	10. The spiral: silver

   Behold the distant shimmering sea. Gulls spreading their wings, mist veiling faraway shores.

   Silver in the wise old man’s beard, on the sacrificial dagger’s handle, in the embroidery on bridal garments. It shines on the edges of clouds pregnant with a storm, in pale wormwood, in the gaze of the divine huntress and a gleaming autumn moon.

   Bright is the peak of Olympos, its unbearable purity no longer part of the world known to humans – leaving behind no more than a shadow of itself.

   Boundaries. Cut and reconnect what used to be whole. Crossroads. Lighthouses. Laughter ringing, morning dew singing on spiderwebs.

   The silver age was a time of children that never became adults.

    A womb, a cradle – why could the oikumene not stay like this? It evolved, learned to change. Seasons began their endless chase, autumn following summer, proper time appointed for all things. For the cold winds to blow. For your seeds to be sown. For the harvest to grow.

   That rhythm went unheard by humanity. They resisted change. Blind, reckless adolescents, convinced that since adults are fallible, there is nothing they can be correct about.

   And so, this race’s pride became hubris, disdaining even the Gods above. They believed themselves – wanted to be - mighty and infinite, unaware of mortality and vulnerability, they saw the world as a possession – their posssession, as far as the shores of grey Okeanos.

   Naturally enough, a complex machine in a child’s hands is very likely to wind up broken, cogs and gears scattered, parts disconnected.

   This did not last long, for divine patience has limits. Due punishment found the deserving – a flood, of course - and none was left to mourn. Unshed tears became quicksilver.

   Flip the clepsydra over. Time trapped in glass shall flow between two halves – past and future weaving their intricate crane-like dance.

   But – how does one learn to understand that inevitability, meet it with head raised high, if all living things tremble before Khronos?

   Count them – all those wide-hulled ships at Aulis. Drink a sorcerous brew to banish poison from your blood, let the cold blade and the kithara strings catch pale moonlight and reflect it back.

   The past speaks. Perhaps, it speaks to you, dear reader. Can you hear? Answer now. Have an argument with the echo. It is sitting right by your side, whispering mythical truths history is deaf to.


	11. The scales and the pivot

   There is unrest on lofty Olympos. The Gods are debating, reminding each other of wrongs and favours past, skillfully painted kylikes full of nectar remain untouched.

   Mere years have passed since the war between Argos and seven-gated Thebai. Many heroes perished, countless men of lesser stature. Is this not enough? Has Gaia not been relieved?

   Phoibos Apollon loves Wilusa of the wide streets. He speaks in its defense every time the matter is brought up, voice clear as harmony itself, seven strings weaving a single melody.

   - Had it not been one of our number, who incited the herdsman and Leda’s daughter to disregard the Law? Why, then, punish all those dwelling in the Troad? Neither shall Akhaia’s sons avoid death – are they not dear to your hearts, Queen Hera, Pallas, uncle?

   The lord of the sea has had enough. He rises from His seat, eyes blazing beneath bushy eyebrows, wild inky mane in disarray – the Thunderer’s spitting image indeed.

   - Those are strange words indeed coming from you, Far-shooter. He who was humiliated by Laomedon, who had sent plague on the city in vengeance, now loves it?

   - My revenge is finished. Yours as well, Earth-shaker, through the monstrous Ketos. Alkeides stopped it, but then razed Wilusa himself. Surely, this is enough.

   It is not in Ennosigaios’ nature to forget easily. Neither is it for the wife of Zeus, Antheia of the golden throne, protectress of marriage oaths. Her every word falls heavy as lead.

   - Indeed, the past is irrelevant. Let us discuss newer crimes – ones commited by a single man, but the deeds of princes cast heavy shadow over the whole land.

   - Why not admit that the one crime that drives your fury against this boy is his choice of the victor in our little contest? Understandable, of course, but unfair.

   Thus speaks the Alashiyan Lady, honey on Her lips, gaze like a bee’s sting. Those words may or may not have unsettled the Queen of Heaven – none but Zeus could make Her mask waver – but no insect would find weakness in the armour of Pallas Athene.

   - Remember shame for once, and do not dismiss the harm you have caused, - the bright-eyed Goddess raises Her icy voice. – It does Paris little credit to have chosen lust over worthier blessings, but that is on him alone. Yet he has stolen the wife of one who offered him wine and bread, who extended his hand in friendship and expected the same in return. Must you make light of everything? Should the Trojans accept him after this, they shall share the blame in full.

   - They have not done so yet, - coos She who emerged from sea foam, all dovelike serenity, – no need for hasty judgments. Wait until there is something to smolder about.

   - True, but uncertainty shall not last long. Akhaia is ready to heed the trumpets of war.

   - It has been so for more than a year, Salpinx. But are you certain your favour is with them on account of justice, instead of on account of a certain mortal dear to you? He did not take long to arrive at Aulis, while the other one shall soon…

   - Hush, Loxias. Keep he future to yourself, we would rather not know.

   The Potnia Theron’s intrusion silences Her sibling at once. Mistress of beasts, a whip-thin girl clad in yellow saffron. Every motion - taut bowstring snapping, hunting hounds tearing through the night, primeval dance of hunter and hunted

   - Very well, sister. But do tell me – which side has Iokheaira chosen?

   - Yours, of course. Wilusa. Can you imagine, how swollen with pride the elder Atreides shall become, if this senseless campaign is successful? We may well witness the first wanax of Mykene in history to burst like a bad waterskin.

   - True. The city would need to be cleaned very thoroughly in that case. When wide-ruling Agamemnon causes trouble, it does tend to be extensive in scale.

   An uncomfortable silence follows. This assessment of the Mykenean ruler is hard to contradict, of course, but do Antheia and father Zeus agree? They seem to be partial to the man – or, perhaps, to the dignity of his scepter.

   - Concerning the heir of Atreus, - pronounces Hera at last, - this is not the right time to speak of him. Let us give the high king a chance to prove himself or fail, while we observe. But, my esteemed husband, why are you silent, while the rest of us are up in arms over this matter?

   Meilikhios sighs, shakes His head sadly – storm clouds gathering in the vast sky.

   - Some of you seem ready to take up arms in earnest. And this before the war has even begun. Be it Asia or Akhaia, both are beloved by one immortal or another. Therefore…

   He raises His right hand, holding glittering golden scales. Quietly, they waver, now one side outweighing the other, now yielding in turn. Rising. Falling.

   A small winged figure on either side, balanced against each other for now. How long can this last?

   - Behold – two fates in equity. Let us not upset them carelessly. The mortals shall act as they choose, and meet their fate in accordance with those actions.

   So He declared, and none raised their voice in dissent.


	12. Shepherds bearing gifts

   Apparently, two years is not enough time to pacify the good people of a certain high-walled city, once they have been agitated by allegedly prophetic nonsense.

   Not that eloping with a foreign queen and the resulting threat of war helped allay the rabble’s fears, but oh well, that couldn’t be helped. Now, there is a rebellion in the making. Deiphobos is busily fanning the flames, with Helenos’ and Antenor’ tacit approval, whereas Hektor… he is being pulled in a dozen directions at once. Who knows how much longer he can stay neutral, until all madness breaks loose and he is inevitably forced to choose a side.

   There are those who believe it is time for Priam to pass the heavy scepter, along with the other burdens of rulership, to his heir. The eldest prince does not agree, but this may well be the only option, if domestic peace is to be upheld in the Troad as it faces an external threat.

   Such are the news a reliable servant brought Paris from the capital. Courtesy of Antimakhos the ever meticulous and his tendency to organize all things into neat little compartments like the natural-born bureaucrat he is.

   They were right to have kept away from the capital and come ashore inconspicuously. Aineias is free to hurry to Kreusa, if he wishes. There is nothing harmful he can say about the prince that would not implicate himself as well. Try washing your hands of this one, dardanian!

   Paris, for his part, gathers the most reliable of his pirates, Helen, her handmaidens and the two children she bore him, and bids them follow him through the Troad and the Arzawa lands, eventually reaching…

   Ah, the den of lions, of course. Greetings, o Hatti, mighty you are and glorious, but not enough to make a cowherd tremble. How fares the labarna? Still comfortable on the throne?

   Well, not precisely. He has abandoned magnificent Hattusa, relocating the capital south to another city, Tarhuntassa by name, much favoured by the Storm God. Who, if the stories are to be believed, has so much in common with Zeus, that, if those two ever meet, They are bound to become either the staunchest of allies or the bitterest of enemies.

   The king and his court moved because of some good omen. It certainly did not happen because of those pesky Kaskans in the north. Your average highland barbarians, who may seem little different from rabid dogs to the Hittites, but those dogs have quite a painful bite.

   There are two possible paths to meeting Muwatalli: the short, and the even shorter one. Either he waits until the royal spies catch wind of foreign royalty happily sauntering right under their noses, including the Thunderer’s daughter. Or, the prince can share some of his ill-gotten riches with a high-ranking official, and convince the latter to whisper the right words into the right ear. Bribery? For shame! This is just the way things are done. A tiny exchange of favours, clearly not significant enough to be mentioned to anyone else.

   Paris is not in the mood for waiting, therefore he chooses the quickest path. He is summoned into the labarna’s illustrious presence mere days after arrival. Bearing worthy gifts, of course. The most exquisitely crafted daggers have been chosen, as well as a chariot so ornate it can only be used for festival processions, two sets of horse bit cheekpieces of purple-dyed ivory, some vessels made of ostrich eggshells. Helen stays behind – there is no such thing as excessive caution when it comes to alluring women and those in power.

   Not that this particular powerful man is quick to fall into temptation. He is harsh, the Sun of Hatti, rival to the ruler of Kemet and Asshur’s Adad-nirari, and not prone to lust or idleness. Paris speaks to him in the presence of the tuliya and the queen Tanu-hepa for some time, but in due time that part of the meeting is done with. The Trojan is left face to face with a Great King, whose power reaches well beyond even his grand empire, and every bit of fear is warranted.

   - You are offering to surrender what your father held on to for most of his life. And the lords of Wilusa before him, as well. When Tudhaliya entered rebellious Arzawa in days past, the Sun had been lenient with your city, although the other kingdoms faced their due punishment. You managed to prosper through difficult times. But, it appears each new generation is indeed weaker than the previous one, as wise men so often proclaim.

   - Yes. But the great labarna understands perfectly well, why I am forced to act this way. While enemies are preparing to invade the Troad on a moment’s notice, many in the capital desire to not only oust me from my rightful place, but use that as justification to prostrate themselves before Mykene’s throne. What am I to do in such circumstances?

   Frankly speaking, Akhaia’s high king is hardly popular in the Troad of late. But, after the stunt Paris pulled, and the call for vengeance that resounded throughout the island of Pelops and beyond, submission may be the only feeble chance to avoid war. Therefore, those who favour peace have no choice but to favour pompous golden Mykene as well.

   - To begin with, you could have refrained from stealing Agamemnon’s sister-in-law. From playing pirate while others are dealing with the fallout in your stead. Should I continue?

   - No, I feel suitably chastised. But what is done is done, so why not turn this state of affairs in our… your favour? Ahhiyawa’s attempts to unite itself shall mean very little, if the beast bites off more that it can swallow. Their fangs shall shatter against the walls of Wilusa, all the more quickly if Hatti gives us it’s support, mighty as well-forged iron. The barbarians are begging to be slaughtered, and, once that is done, what ruler of Mykene shall so much as turn his embarrassed gaze in the direction of the East?

   - Do not expect all other men to be like you, boy. The Ahhiyawans are an obstinate and persistent race. But, this opportunity is far too tempting to refuse, I must admit. So be it. I shall help you. Heed me now: you shall pledge your allegiance to Hatti in the presence of the tuliya, and before the Thousand Gods. My wars shall become yours, my enemies and allies – yours, any independence for the Troad is out of the question. I shall force your father to recognize you as his heir, in Hektor’s place. For this, a tablet with my seal should prove sufficient. Perhaps a few soldiers as evidence of my genuine intentions. My brother, Hattusili, should have been the one to oversee this matter, due to its complexity, but he is occupied with important matters in the north. Regardless, Priam is well aware that the Sun does not speak in vain. He shall comply, if his own good, and that of his people, is of any value to him.

   - Any oath the great labarna desires from his servant, he shall receive.

   - Do you at least have your own seal?

   He does. Had it made before sailing for Sparta – a pretty cylinder of hematite.

   Oaths, oaths, one after another. It the temples, before the springs. All the Gods are invoked as witnesses – the Storm Lord, Apaliunas, mountains and rivers, and so on. Countless disasters are called down on the prince’s head should he renege on his word.

   Paris traded gold, bronze and ivory for a piece of burned clay – and counts himself fortunate for the exchange. Wilusa, on the other hand? It shall have to accept the new reality.

*******************************************************************************************************************************************

   Priam has regarded scrawny stray dogs with less disdain in his gaze than he does Paris. It might be better to just leave again, without wasting breath on explanations. But giving up so soon would have been such a disappointment, particularly with Helen watching.

   - You once asked, young man, what makes Ahhiyawa fearsome. Now, we are all about to find out. Hundreds of ships are waiting for the slightest provocation to fall upon us. Excellent soldiers, well-trained and thirsty for battle. And that is only what our enemy is showing openly. In truth, we may be facing an even greater force. They are coming for you, but all of Troad shall suffer. Yet you presume to show your face here?

   - I do not come empty-handed. Look, I am attended by the iron of Hatti!

   - So you are – the king agrees, hiding neither resentment nor despair. The presence of two officers bearing distinctive arms – the kind a labarna’s personal guard is equipped with – should be proof enough. But those two are stoic and silent, and if further confirmation is necessary – here it is, put into pretty miniscule words.

   The prince produces that precious tablet, caring little whether his father can read the nesite tongue. If he doesn’t, summoning a scribe should not be a problem.

   - From now on, I am Muwatalli’s vassal. He orders you to appoint me as the heir to the throne in Hektor’s place, and to strangle any potential unrest in whatever manner you deem most appropriate. But you must do this, or become the Sun’s enemy.

   Then, with some hesitation, he adds, much more softly:

   - I had no choice. Now, neither does Wilusa.

   Old Dardanides is at a loss for words. Then, he feels Hekabe’s hand on his shoulder, talon-fingers almost tearing at his clothes – has she turned into a bird of prey out of sheer fury?

   The akhaian woman finally forces herself to move, approaching the king to throw her hands around his knees, as suppliants are expected to do in her homeland overseas. Learning the luwian language was hardly the priority it should have been for the swan-begotten. Aphrodite made sure there were… distractions. But she still absorbed quite enough during the voyage – more from Aineias than from Paris.

   - My lord, I beg you to listen, in the names of our common ancestors. For my mother Leda and your queen both descend from Phoinix Agenorides, whereas my earthly father, Tyndareos, is related to your great-grandfather, far-famed Dardanos. May your anger, righteous as it is, abate. Do not turn away from us. Such was the will of the immortals – for me to meet Paris, to go on board a Trojan ship and follow him here. Now, what is done is done, mighty king. Akhaia is consumed by vengeance – vengeance and bloodlust, I assure you, not desire for my return – what better hope is there for holy Wilusa than the Sun’s assistance? I pray that you can forgive us, and welcome your son’s safe return – behold, he had left still a man unwed, but now a daughter-in law and two tiny boys are asking to be accepted into the house of Dardanos. And we are offering a way to remedy the harm we have caused.

   The one to answer her, however, is Hekabe, who was quicker to regain her bearings.

   - Had it not been for you, there would be no need for any remedies. Iron-hard is the grip of Hatti, and heavy to bear, yet it’s mighty lord has little reason to raise arms in our defense, should the threat prove too great for his taste.

   - I shall hardly be surprised if these two guards who keep following Paris everywhere turn out to be the whole extent of Hatti’s generosity, - Priam hisses. – Should we open Wilusa’s gates to you, disaster is bound to follow close behind. Or, perhaps, it is inside the city walls already. What you are forcing me to do... how do I silence Pergamon? And the lower city? How do I explain this to Hekor, who is ten times the man this brainless buffoon can even dream of becoming? Still, if the labarna’s demands are not met, his wrath shall fall upon us, in addition to that of Mykene.

   - My king! My queen! Please have mercy. For the children’s sake, - Helen’s voice is a dissonant harp.

   Here the boys are, both restless – Pleisthenes in Aifra’s arms, Aganas in Klymene’s.

   - Neither Paris, nor you yourself, are any wiser than those two. But you are still suppliants here, and family as well. Let us hope Wilusa can somehow withstand the coming storm.

   Dardanides understands all too well the truth of his wife’s words. It still stings.

   - Perhaps I am the real fool in this matter. I should be ordering you both chained and taken to Menelaos, consequences be damned. But it is too late. We can not afford to face two mighty enemies at once. As it stands, we still have a tiny speck of hope that the city shall not be ground to dust overnight.

   - May the Gods and Goddesses not avert Their faces from our plight. It is evident to Them that the city shall not be harboring criminals of it’s own volition. And oh, may the Lords and Ladies forgive those who failed to heed Their warnings.

   Having said so, Hekabe – chalk-pale and empty - heads straight for the Dardanian gate. It must have been a lifetime ago – the barely contained joy at meeting her long-lost child, the prayers and sacrifices of sincere gratitude in the land’s foremost temples. The torch had not been extinguished, merely biding it’s time. Now the moths shall burn.

   The fugitives had prepared beautiful gifts – fabrics from Kemet, boxes of cedar wood encased in silver, bronze mirrors, pearls, lapis-lazuli, malachite and turquoise. Sidonian purple garments, too. All these were pointedly ignored by the king and queen. Paris, on the other hand, wastes remarkably little time dwelling on his mistakes, and eventually orders the treasure brought into the palace and stored securely.

   You are a good man, Agelaos, truly. But had you been evil, had you followed that order – that would have saved the Troad. Now, that defenseless infant you once spared has doomed everyone to either thirsty Akhaian bronze, or Hittite yoke – and who can tell which is worse?


	13. Counting ships

  So many seagulls circling stony Ithake - their cries shrill and maddening, waves breaking against rocks without aim, and the eyes of the island’s young queen hide something feverish, too.

   It is almost a conspiracy – between the inhospitable land, the birds, the wailing child in Penelope’s arms, stubbornly refusing to quiet down. All that and more screams: leave now, dear guests, before you lose your minds drop by drop. A mind is such an easy thing to misplace – particularly on these shores, which might well be the end of the known world.

   Ah, old grey Okeanos – is that your breath touching the faces of mortals with otherworldly chill?

   The basileus of this useless patch of land littering the Great Green – and a few others, no less dreary – is easy to find. There he is: a once intelligent and crafty man, his mind a knotted fisherman’s net.

   Now, that complex pattern has been unraveled. He – a great farmer indeed! - has yoked a donkey and an ox together, and took to ploughing fruitless dry earth, using salt instead of seed. Taking a man like that to an evening of revelry, let alone to war? Even the enemy will laugh, and with good reason.

   Hoist the sails, boys, nothing to see here.

   While the two Atreidai cast longing glances at the ship, pretending to listen to a very distressed Penelope and Eurybates the herald – yes, the ruler has been like this for more than a month, not a soul knows why, the disaster struck suddenly, may Paian be merciful – Palamedes watches. He considers the newfangled madman, his movements, troubled gaze, dirty clothes. Even the hat has been put on sideways. How very comprehensive.

   He is a cunning man, Palamedes of Euboia, king Nauplios’ beloved offspring. They say the island’s rowdy pirates have grown to regard him as highly as his father. Well he knows old raiders’ tricks, and quick to come up with fresh ones, too. Ambushes and false beacon fires are not the sole livelihood even for such men as these. But Naupliades is still not satisfied. He thinks himself no worse – better, rather – than the mainland basileis, wishing to be a refined gentleman. He is well acquainted with the science of numbers and the science of stars from Bab-Ilu, the secrets of Kemet’s fabled architects, and a great deal besides.

   Of late, the old script, borrowed from Krete, started to seem insufficient to him – too complex and unwieldy. Some change is in order. And – oh, happy chance! – the Canaanim – Phoenicians – have recently taken to using a far superior system of writing. It is easy to learn, cleaner, and oh, if only Akhaia could partake of this new knowledge… Aleph-Beth-Gimel…  

   Such is the man staring at the Ithakan chieftain, assessing every detail with probing eyes.

   Why so curious, Euboian? Let the sorry man have his ox and his donkey, his salt and useless plough. Gods be good, who wants to have anything to do with him? No time for distractions, Aulis is waiting for those who still have their wits about them.

   Sharply, Naupliades tears the child from its mother’s arms, moving towards the oblivious king. Heedless of the woman’s protests, a great dog’s frantic barking, Menelaos’ attempt to stop whatever the Tartaros is happening – how many Akhaian chieftains has Ate decided to ride these days? – Palamedes puts the infant in the fool’s way.

   Shall the plough put an end to the boy – or the animals, one must wonder?

   None of them do. The father stops several steps short of committing a crime, picks his son up without a word, brings him to a weeping Penelope. Passes her the child.

   - Name him Telemakhos, dearest wife. As you can see, I can not avoid battling on the faraway shores of the Troad. Steady, don’t drop your burden.

   While the queen tries to suppress the trembling in her limbs, her husband turns to his unwelcome guests, most of whom are still somewhat shaken.

   - Very well, my lords, you have uncovered my little charade. A shame, really – such a mighty army is so desperate for help from a few obsolete islands.

   Agamemnon smiles, putting his hand on the would-be farmer’s shoulder. The great wanax is not as sturdy as the other man, but a head taller, so looking imposing comes easily.

   - We are in greater need of your cunning, than of your fighting men. Fortresses don’t fall to numbers – surely you know that well.

   - Is that so? Of what use, then, is a fool so easily outwitted by the prince of Euboia? That one has enough cunning for Wilusa, perhaps for all of Asia.

   - Enough or not, having another wise mind can hardly be to our detriment. Besides, don’t act as though this matter has nothing to do with you. Remember the oath of Tyndareos. Stop fooling around. It is enough that Kinyras of Alashiya outwitted us all – me, Palamedes, Nestor. The cursed musician boasted he would provide dozens of ships – and he did. One real, a whole fleet of clay vessels. No matter. He won’t be boasting for long.

   Odysseus shakes his head, chuckling despite himself. Will you listen to this shepherd of men.

   - You are too obvious to be intimidating, Agamemnon. I am not a sheep to be goaded. But let us go to the megaron, so that I may welcome you properly and give orders to my household. Assuming, of course, my honoured guests are not in haste to leave?

   The guests – invaders, perhaps? – remain silent. There is no way they can sail away now, leaving Laertiades to his own devices. To think of all the schemes he might conceive!

   There are whispers between the royal couple, much calmer than one would expect considering what happened. Those who hope to avoid war are still advised to prepare for it.

   Palamedes feels like a fisherman, who caught a fish much larger than he expected – who shall prevail in this clash? Accepting bets now, dear audience.

   The Ithakan fish, trapped and thrown on the shore, has no choice but to adapt lest it gets eaten. Change scales into heavy bronze, become better accustomed to the smell of blood.

   Those who would swim with sharks must have sharp teeth indeed.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   Aulis of the turbulent waters has become a lively place indeed – crowded, some would say.

   It is a military camp. It is a pirate nest. It is a high king’s glittering court that decided to entertain itself with an outing. Or, perhaps, a secret hideout for a pack of unruly boys too young for proper war, but old enough for a boar hunt.

   The last comparison is particularly apt.

   All this – wanax and servant, horse and ship – hangs suspended between sand and sky, between time and timelessness, peace and war, “not yet” and “too late”, prose and song.

   A host of fools too young to know better – nevermind that some of them have grey hair already – has smelled blood and rejoices.

   Why not? The bristly beast is hardly unworthy prey: a mighty animal, unpredictable and swift, favoured by bloody Ares Himself. There is glory to be had, and tusks for a helmet, good competition and a hide to keep as a trophy. No shortage of reasons to take up arms and chase down a boar. So that is what they are doing.

   There is quite a bit of posturing, division of spoils not yet taken, eagerness real and forced, misgivings honest and insincere. And, most of all, noise. Who cares whether the misfortunate pig committed any offence to deserve this treatment?

   How similar to another hunt – that of Oineus in wild Kalydon. Has Akhaia so quickly forgotten the price of games like these?

   Remind them, old Nestor, before it is too late.

   Speak of that king, who offended the Potnia Theron, and of Her wrath, a great boar stronger and quicker than dozens of common beasts, of the heroes from the whole land who heeded his desperate call, of the pursuit itself. Of Arkadian Atalante, the first to draw blood from the prey, of Meleagros, the young heir, who judged her worthy of the bloody hide once the task was done. Of how Queen Althaia’s brothers grew jealous because of that, and how Meleagros killed them, his blood still astir with the excitement of the chase. Of how a mother struck the earth, wailed and begged the khtonic Gods to punish her own child for kinslaying.

   She did more than beg. Eventually, the basilissa burned a certain log, which the very Moirai had pronounced tied to the prince’s fate. Long ago, she had extinguished the smoldering piece of wood with bare hands, she had hidden it securely – all of that was forgotten.

   Meleagros and all his brothers did in fact perish, his wife hanged herself, the aging ruling couple met unhappy fates as well – all of that because of a single pig.

   The Gerenian horseman does try to remind the youngsters of tragedies past lest they be repeated, but few listen. Least of all – Agamemnon, for all his praise and feigned respect.

   No time for second thoughts. What matters now is the army, the countless chieftains, the supplies and keeping the herd of cats from either dissolving of descending into strife.

   From Boiothia, where seven-gated Thebe is raising her head again after the disastrous war – ten ships, led by Thersander the Epigonos, grandson of Oidipous. Kadmos, the city’s founder, is depicted on the sails, fighting a golden drakon.

   Askalaphos and Ialmenos, born of Ares, are in charge of six black vessels, a hundred and twenty soldiers in each. Those come from Minyan Orkhomenos where Athamas once ruled.

   Four ships from Phokis, where river Kephissos flows, helmed by Epistrophos and Skhedios.

   Aias Oilides – the smaller one, quick and sleek, handy with the spear – managed to fill eight vessels with Lokrian men. He is holding games – foot races and spear combat, of course.

   The warlike Abantes of Khalkis in Euboia, with their long braids, follow pale Palamedes. Eight ships again, and the impatience for some good old-fashioned carnage is tangible.

   Look, the contingent from Athens, the city of earth-born Erekhtheus. Ten meticulously equipped ships, Pallas gracing the sails. Their chieftain is Menestheus, well versed in the deployment of armies – look out for the competition, Nestor! – and seizing power through dirty treachery. That last title is one that Neleides shall gladly leave in the Athenian’s hands.

   The Greater Aias, tall and mighty, leads four ships from Salamis, where his father Telamon still rules. According to some, Aias himself might well be considered ship number five.

   From parched Argos and Tiryns of the mighty walls – sixteen vessels. Tydeides Diomedes their chieftain, with his co-ruler Sthenelos and Euryalos. All of them are Epigonoi, but where the former turns, the two others shall follow. How so, if all of them are of equal standing? None of those who fought at Thebe’s gates would question that.

   Wide-ruling Agamemnon of Mykene furnished twenty well-wrought vessels – no less. Let no fool think himself fit to contend with the golden den of lions!

   Then, the younger Atreides with his Lakedaimonians. Twelve new black boats waiting for the trumpets to sound, so that the betrayed husband and host can have his vengeance.

   Eighteen ships from Nestor’s wealthy Pylos and other Messenian lands, sails bearing the visage of a mighty bull - their neigbour Alpheios, the river god. Antilokhos and Thrasymedes are doing their best to be their father’s arms and legs as is their duty, but the greybeard himself seems to be growing younger with each passing day – action does wonders for his health. Trying to outlive everyone you know, are you, Neleides?

   In Arkadia, a land dear to feral Pan and Kyllenios the divine messenger, many answered the call of Agapenor. But the son of Ankaios the argonaut had no proper boats – not particularly surprising from the Arkadian landlubbers, but still a disappointment. Transportation had to be provided by the high king in a show of generosity - twelve in all.

   Thalpios – child of Eurytes – and Amphimakhos, Polyxenos and Diores Amarinkides lead a contingent from Elis. Eight vessels stand ready.

   Black ships, white oars striking the water as if obedient to a single will. One-two, one-two. A complicated machine created by Hephaistos, hardly the work of human hands. These eight hail from Doulikhion and the sacred Ekhinades islands, under the command of Meges.

   Odysseus prefers quality to quantity – so, four vessels, but excellent ones. Filled with sailors from Ithake, Zakynthos, Kefallenia, other small islands and some coastal settlements.

   There is also well-spoken Thoas Andraimonides of mountainous, rough Aitolia, with eight ships under his command. Would have been more, had not matters back in Kalydon been so volatile.

   Ancient stubborn Oineus had never been loved by the common folk nor by his own family, and there had been an attempt to overthrow him some years ago. Diomedes, being Oineus’ grandson, interfered on his behalf, ousting the pretenders – yet the fate of all men caught up with the king. Andraimon, the husband of his daughter, inherited – which many still would contend the moment they see an opportunity. But Thoas, his heir, had been one of those vying for Helen's hand – so here he is, at Aulis, half-glad to throw himself into one madness to avoid another.

   Idomeneus of Krete is well past thirty, and he had expected his sole concern to be expanding the power of far-famed Knossos, with the support of his faithful vassal Meriones. But the Gods hate him who betrays an oath – easy to guess which one - and the council of elders insisted on him joining the war effort as well. So here they are, former thalassocrats desperately fighting to stay relevant, boasting of sixteen magnificently wrought ships – a force well worthy of the island of a hundred cities.

   Mighty one-eyed Tlepolemos Herakleides of Rhodos provided merely two ships – but good enough to rival the Kretan ones, and with sailors just as capable, too. He himself is a mountain of a man – only Aias Telamoniades surpasses him in sheer raw power.

   He was born on the mainland, this Tlepolemos - to Astyokhe, who had warmed the bed of Herakles for quite some time. The child grew up in his illustrious father’s dwelling, and remembers the hero well. But he killed family – Likymnios, Herakles’ maternal uncle – and was forced into exile to avoid punishment. Eventually, his travels led him to the flourishing island, and the blood of Alkeides allowed him to hold power worthy of such lineage.

   Curly-haired Nireus of Syme brings a whole full ship - not without some prodding.

   Nisyre and the Kalydnean islands provided six boats, helmed by Antiphos and Pheidippos, grandchildren of Herakles. One might wonder – would Akhaia have been barren of men, had the great hero not sown his seed far and wide?

   Eager Protesilaos of Phylake arrives at the helm of eight black ships. Eumelos of Pherai, born of Admetos and Alkeste – each granted a second life, if the tales are true – has a single boat, and one carries Philoktetes the archer from Meliboia.

   Oikhalia and Trikke, home to Podaleirios and Makhaon the Asklepiadai – six vessels, not bad for healers. Eurypylos son of Euaimonas, of Ormenios and Hyperea, leads eight ships, as well as Leonteus and Polypoites, child of Peirithous – those come from Argyssa and Oloosson.

   There are four ships furnished by Gouneus of the Enienes, and the Magnetes who live at the foot of holy Pelion sent eight black ships, their chieftain being Prothoos.

   A fleet worthy of a Great King – every soldier well trained and armed, too.

   What? Too few? Not enough to make the Troad and their allies tremble? But this is not the end.

   As each basileus well remembers, Wilusa has her own fleet, though weak for a city of such power. And the smaller coastal settlements are so very vulnerable – which Priam is no doubt aware of. Now, that fleet – and a fair number of Trojan allies – need something to occupy themselves with, no?

   Let it never be said that Akhaia is ungenerous: aside from the army openly assembled at Aulis, there is a hidden one, almost comparable in number, if not in quality. There are islands and coastal villages filled with old boats and men – their arms insufficient, training barely existent, but anger and hunger in plentiful supply.

   The civilized East thinks Akhaia home to raiders and brigands – so raid they shall. Beware, Asia, your shores have not tasted true piracy yet.

   How many ships, you ask? No matter. Might as well be a thousand.

   Ahhiyawa seethes, Ahhiyawa fumes. It is a vicious mass of fangs and claws – spears, swords, helmets - proudly blazing in the sun and hidden in deep shadow.

   The horizon seems well within reach.


	14. Freedom of choice

   The alliance of the horse is expanding steadily, even if not all members joined with equal enthusiasm.

   All the tribes are in motion – including those, whose leaders never took part in that bloody vow. The more the merrier, haven’t you heard?

   Few manage to slip away. And one, born to an immortal Nereid, can simply not be allowed to.

   Kalkhas the seer is certain that without the son of Peleus and Thetis steep Wilusa can not be taken. But the youth shows little eagerness to enter battle – why else would he be hiding?

   Well, not for long. The priest of Loxias has indicated a place – Skyros. Miserable little island with a ruler famed for treachery. Why would anyone entrust their life to these bitter cliffs, still haunted by the shade of Theseus, pushed to his death by one he imagined a friend? But, enough of yesteryear. Back to the present we go.

   Pale sand, early autumn’s cool calming breath, girls of various ages flocking together. Marvelous. One could spend eternity beneath this sun, listening to cheerful chatter.

   The ladies – most of them, at least – belong to the household of King Lykomedes. He has fathered many daughters, but not a single boy – not for lack of trying. So, the women’s quarters of his dwelling are a bustling temple to Youth.

   Of late, even the other basileis, particularly the less influential ones, took to sending their daughters to Skyros. They expect them to be brought up in exclusively female company, too busy weaving, dancing, learning how to manage a household from the adults, gossiping – to think about boys. A tiny women’s kingdom where women decide nothing.

   What is it than piqued your curiosity and called you out of seclusion, beauties? A visiting merchant, it seems. His wares have been carefully laid out on the beach: mostly colourful trinkets, but still interesting enough for a place not used to extravagance. And the littlest ones? Nothing short of extatic.

   The merchant just so happens to be Laertiades Odysseus of Ithake. And among his wares an inquisitive eye might also have noticed a well-sharpened spear and a round shield – strange company indeed for all those necklaces, fabric and perfumes. Decoration for the gynaikeion perhaps?

   Most of the crew ftom the not-entirely-trading vessel left on various errands – no use waiting under the sweltering sun, not like any threat is likely to appear. Only a single guard stands on the beach, leaning on his long-shadowed spear, grey eyes impassive.

   Diomedes, the ruler of horse-rearing Argos, makes for a convincing mercenary indeed. Had it been any of the Atreidai or, say, Idomeneus, with their long well-oiled hair and love for expensive Sidonian garments in his place – now that would have been a sight for the ages.

   Instead, here is the very image of a warrior like a million others, one of those whose only inalienable possession is a disregard for life – both that of others, and their own.

Many would argue that is all there is to the basileus who is a stranger in his own kingdom.

   He belongs to war – and that, at least, is indisputable. Just ask seven-gated Thebe, conquered by the Epigonoi half a dozen years ago. Or Aitolia, the native land of Tydeus: his descendant made quite an impression on his grandfather’s enemies there. And oh, naturally enough, he hardly needed to be forced into joining the expedition against Wilusa.

   Odysseus knew perfectly well who would be of most use in this hunt for a wayward Nereid's child back when he was roped into the task – so, it became a shared headache.

   Neither sharp blade without a sharp mind, nor the other way around, can get very far.

   The girls, in the meantime, seem to have settled on what trinkets each of them preferred. Like these two did – blossoms old enough to be brides, admiring their newly adorned reflections in a bronze mirror.

   The smaller one is attractive enough, poised and graceful. She is holding a child by the hand, lest it wander away. Interesting, Laertiades remarks to himself. Whose offspring might this be? Is Lykomedes still at it – or…

   The other one is somewhat taller and looks older. Her features lack delicacy, and those shoulders are certainly way too broad, but ah, look at her copper tresses – long and luxurious, a blazing marvel. Little wonder the others call her Pyrrha. Ah, truly, the Gods give every mortal, no matter how luckless, at least one gift to be proud of.

   An island in the middle of nowhere? Looks more like the palace of a Kemetan king’s countless wives. Chirp-chirp – songbirds flitting from one fragrant branch to another, a garden apart from the concerns of the greater Oikumene. Laughter, incessant questioning – news from the mainland are a rare commodity.

   The youngest larks have surrounded the Ithakan – who calls himself uncle Lykos here. Taking half his grandfather’s name turns out to be a bad omen – songbirds or no, this glittering flock seems poised to capture and cage the wolf.

   Until the trumpets are blown, of course. Until the brazen throat of Eris lets out a deafening scream, shattering the peace like an offering to the Ones Below. Weapons thunder all too near, and the island shudders – cliffs, sand, palace – everything.

   But who would bother attacking the domain of Lykomedes? It is hardly prosperous – even compared to Ithake – and the tales told of the ruler would convince any raider worth his salt avoid this place like Tartaros itself, in favour of less sinewy prey.

   Well, somebody must have decided to test his luck. This certainly sounds like an invasion. Before anybody else can react properly, one of the lady larks gets rid of her skirt and blouse lest they stifle her – his - movements, and, armed with the conveniently provided shield and spear – hold on, when did he…? - starts in the direction of the noise.

   How peculiar. Is it common for the women of Skyros to be endowed with something females usually lack? New fashion, perhaps?

   The redhead would have headed towards the alleged attackers, but the… ahem, mercenary blocks his path. The Argive king shouts a curt order – which stops the commotion.

   Naturally, the sailors have been producing all the warlike din and trumpeting – no kydos for guessing whose idea this sham raid was.

   Uncle Lykos slowly rises from the sand.

   - Khaire, Peleides, - he smiles. – Far be it from me to disparage anyone’s taste in clothing, but – skirts, truly? Still, this is a good place to hide. How has the spinning been going?

   Pyrrha’s face turns bright red – and oh, look at that downcast gaze. Must have struck a chord.

   - Ask my mother. She ordered me to… I would never have come here of my own volition.

   - But of course. Your coiffure by the way.. there is a strand out of place. Most unladylike.

   The boy throws down his weapons as if they were on fire, proceeds to tear a pin out of his hairdo. And some hair, too, for good measure. Now, those copper locks are half unbound, snaking down his back. The very image of Hermaphroditos.

   - This is not funny. Who are you, stranger, what do you want? Who told you where I was?

   - Kalkhas the seer did. You might have heard of the force assembling against Wilusa. Well, the deathless Gods have decreed that victory can not be achieved without you. I myself am the basileus of Ithake, Laertiades Odysseus. On the orders of the great wanax I came here in search of the prophesied Goddess-born warrior. But what is this? In his stead, I find a boy who would rather obey his overprotective mother than his own heart, which, without a doubt, burns for battle and glory.

   - Ehough, Laertiades. Remember that he never swore to defend Menelaos’ honour.

   - Oh, so you finally decided to join in. Not bothering with an introduction? Hey, Akhilleus, meet my companion, Diomedes of Argos. He is not always so terse.

   At this, Peleides blushes even more furiously. Little wonder, that. He has probably seen sixteen winters, no more. At that age, songs of war and valiant deeds rouse the spirit so easily. And when it comes to such tales, equally welcome in towering palace and quiet village, which one is the newest, not yet reshaped beyond recognition by the aiodoi in search of the truth beyond a truth, but still rolling like thunder throughout Akhaia?

   That of the Epigonoi, of course. As it happens, Diomedes was also sixteen when he distinguished himself in that war. And oh, did he ever.

   Shame is such a heavy yoke, and desire for glory such a sharp, stinging goad. Will Akhilleus let himself become another beast ploughing the red fields of Ares?

   Meanwhile, the so-called mercenary takes the so-called merchant by the shoulders and forcibly turns him in the direction of their ship. What? But Odysseus had only began to…

   - Let us go, Ithakan. He needs some space right now.

   Then, Diomedes throws a backwards glance at “Pyrrha”:

   - Make your choice. We can keep quiet, if that is what you – you, not anyone else - want.

   And that puts an end to the show. The basileis return to their ship. The Skyrians might as well have been doves petrified by the sight of a hunting hawk – it takes some time for them to recover.

   At last Deidameia – the one with the child – grasps Akhilleus’ hand tightly.

   - What now, Pyrrha? They will never leave you alone now.

   - They will, Tydeides gave his word. And… stop with the “Pyrrha” charade, crows take it.

   - But listen: now they know where you are. Men you just met and have no reason to trust. Have you perhaps decided to abandon me? Little Neoptolemos as well?

   - Have I? My hands have decided. My feet did. Eyes and ears, and the heart speaks in unison with them. I knew what I was doing when I took those weapons, Deidameia. Please, do not stop me. The child… I shall take you for wife before the Gods and men. Neoptolemos must not grow up illegitimate, and your honour must be preserved. Is this enough?

   - Not entirely. But this matter has nothing to do with you! Who cares about this Wilusa!

   - Not I. But I am tired of hiding. I was born for more than this place.

   - You were born for more than an early grave, too. Have you forgotten about the prophecy you told me about? Trust your divine mother, and you may yet live a long life.

   - Is that better than glory? Let me go now. I fear I may grow to hate myself if I stay.

  - And me as well? Leave, if that is what you want. You will regret this choice.

   - I already do. But the other path is no less full of bitterness. Nothing to be done about that. Deidameia, can’t you see, when I took that spear, I…

   Where can he find the words to describe his feelings? Borrowing some from the travelling singers could work, but she will just insist they are poisoned wine. And with good reason, too.

   Back on the ship, there is silence. Not the heavy kind, nor uncomfortable – thoughtful, rather. Neither the Ithakan not the Argive are old men – but old they feel. Must be the air.

   Odysseus should have been angry at his companion, truly. But how can he muster that wrath when it would be so unfair? The boy deserves a choice, all prophecies be damned.

   - I went too far, Diomedes. You were right to stop me. If the boy opts out of this war, we will let him. Not his brawl.

   - This is everybody’s brawl, like it or not. You think this is about Menelaos? Paris, Helen? Agamemnon? You, me, a foot soldier from Arkadia who recently discovered what an oar looks like? This is about so much more, and war might be the only way.

   - To where? Must a single fool’s transgression have thousands dancing on hot coals?

   - Perhaps not. But when disregard for the laws remains without punishment – that’s even worse than a path to ruin. A path to nowhere. Say, have you seen a rotting limb cut off?

   - Oh yes, I have. Took every ounce of restraint I had to not throw up. Also, he still died from blood loss.

   - Nevertheless, it sometimes has to be done. However hard the one afflicted fights and screams. At some point, the healer just orders whoever is on hand to hold the injured man down, and does his job. As one put it: “If this idiot wants to die so badly, he is free to kill himself later, but not on my watch.”

   Healers are no strangers to decisions that may save or destroy lives – and know far too well the cost of not making a decision at all. Terrifying people, really. The one time the Ithakan had to deal with an amputation, he had been one of those holding the victim still. The man nearly dislocated a joint or two trying to break free. The good doctor? Not a feather ruffled.

   - What if the medic happens to be wrong, and the afflicted arm or leg could be saved?

   - Possible. But irrelevant in this case. Who cares about the details and excuses now that the fugitives have been offered sanctuary in Wilusa. The question now is not whether war happens, but how it will happen. I am not about to stand by idly. You were not given the option to. And Peleides – he shall join the bedlam before long.

   - Oh? What makes you so certain?

   - What stranded fish would not jump into water at first opportunity? Can’t keep water from claiming what belongs to it, either.


	15. Consequences

   There are sights too dazzling to face directly: shield your eyes lest you go blind. See through your eyelids swans, white as snow, soaring in joy and freedom. Deft fingers captured them, placed within the loom frame – but none would dare call the birds a work of artifice.

   Sunlight dances on Helen’s work – green thread, and blue, white and shimmering silver. The swans are a breath away from breaking through the boundary between worlds in a flurry of soft feathers, bright light and a spray of salt water.

   She smiles. Working in the garden is a sweet diversion indeed. She used to do this in Lakedaimon, too, whenever the weather allowed. Here, it makes her feel almost at home – or would have, if it weren’t for the other women. Quiet, irascible women with lightless eyes.

   The daughter of Zeus would have welcomed blessed ignorance, but she knows the reason.

   Are they going to blame her forever? Can this silence perhaps prevent the impending war? Set all the wrongs right, turn back time? She had feared a great deal of things, but no burden proved heavier than the company – or lack thereof – of the Trojan women.

   - Queen, how is my weaving turning out? Is there some kind of fault I cannot see? Your newest daughter would welcome even a word of advice, you know…

   The matriarch waves the question off, without sparing so much as the briefest of glances.

   - The work has no blemish. Fret not, Paris will be pleased.

   - Th… thank you. Fresh air always does me good, and time flies by with such speed – work hardly feels like work. Such gentle wind…

   - Gentle? It shall grow harsh before you know it. There shall be thunder and lightning, searing, deafening, the blind shall see and the mute scream!

   Of course the insane princess had to open her mouth. She shudders, she cackles – a brittle sound, like thin ice breaking. Even her mother is uneasy.

   - Kassandra! You are not a crow, stop invoking misfortune, - Hekabe sighs. Not this again!

   - Who knows, this time the crow might turn out to be right, mother. The Sun God preserve us from what this foreigner and Paris started – even the worst doomsayers sound disturbingly sane by now, - Laodike intervenes, only for Polyxena’s soft voice to counter:

   - That is no reason to allow strife inside Wilusa itself. We have had enough of that.

   - There would have been no strife if those two learned not to think with their…

   Forgetting the work, Helen bites her lip. Why can one not burn to ash from shame? No trace, no pain. Aphrodite of the iridescent throne, why have you abandoned your instrument?

   - Laodike, when the divine takes a mortal by the hand, there is nothing that can be done. And the might of the golden Goddess is all the more irresistible. Have you never been in love?

   - Blaming the Gods again, are we? Is your mind not your own? You are sicker than my elder sister, then. Seek help.

   - What help can a woman find in a world that belongs to men and to the Olympians?

   The princess of Wilusa springs to her feet, overturning her loom – hardly a loss, to be honest. She has always been terrible at any craft that required sophistication of thought.

   - Tell it to the land you blithely put on the brink of war. To every man and woman in the Troad and to your countrymen – not that you care about either. Invent explanations all you want, but a grown woman answers for her own actions. You are no mindless babe. Do not act surprised when you are held responsible for once. All that talk of the Gods when it is convenient for you – but their laws, of course, are meant for others only, never for you.

   Hekabe is no stranger to bitterness herself, but – honestly, what do accusations change? Enough evil words have been said.

   The fabric on her loom is mostly white, with golden vines twining in a complex pattern around the border. So similar to the ones gifted by the Thunderer to Tros as part of reparation for taking Ganymedes.

   The eternally young prince is still one of the cupbearers of Olympos – but how much longer can the glittering vine grow in peace?

   She is desperate to retain some measure of concord in the palace, but… Fire and gold are so alike. And that discord-invoking apple, given by Paris to the Alashiyan Goddess – was it not made of the precious, maddening metal too?

   - Daughter, we all understand your feelings, there is no doubt you speak the truth. But this is also the wrong time for anger. Surely dealing with the hardships and dangers hanging over the city is more important than blaming even the truly guilty. Perhaps you should go see the horses, that should raise your heart up from the depths of whatever sea has swallowed it. You are not of much use here at any rate, and Helikaon is already resigned to the fate of a man whose wife leaves the weaving to the serving girls.

   Laodike hardly looks chastised. Her poor husband-to-be is to be saddled with – and ridden by – a beautiful but useless wife with hands too rough for women’s work. All of Pergamon laughs, but Helikaon cares not.

   Still, taking a look at the horses would do no harm. Hektor might be there, too.

   The girl bolts like a startled filly – a blur of quick bare feet and loose hair. Polyxena watches her with sympathy. Right or wrong, at least somebody speaks her mind here.

   The queen barely misses a beat with her work – but miss a beat she does.

   Kassandra might as well have been lost in an enchanted world of her own – she keeps weaving like a woman possessed, as yellow and red tongues of flame bloom on a coal-black background. Cobwebs burning, a scarlet maze unwinding to engulf all. If only they could read the signs.

   This discord in paradise bodes ill for Wilusa of the broad streets. War entered the upper city well before a single Akhaian set foot on the Asian coast.

   Fruit of gold, bird of silver.

   And the Spartan? Her fingers flutter ceaselessly, bringing to life shining swans with wings spread over the sea without a care in the world.

 

*********************************************************************************************

 

   - Lykians, Halizdones, Karians, Kilykians… we can also rely on Aineias of Dardania, no matter how tense his relationship with the king is. Their lands are too easily accessible for them to pretend the invasion only concerns Wilusa. As for the Thrakian Rhesos, he has sent yet another messenger promising to crush the bones of our enemies beneath the hooves of his horses. If only others were so eager to… prince Paris, are you still with us?

   - No, Polydamas, my mind has not left Helen’s bed for a moment. Try not to be too envious

   - Daydreaming is all well and good, but in the real world we are facing a war. Pretend you care.

   - Oh, forget about the runt, Antenorides, it’s not like he could contribute even if he tried.

   Leave it to Deiphobos to add poison to an already bitter draught. The royal couple and Hektor barely managed to stop him from starting a rebellion in the wake of Paris’ return – which is still a disappointment to the former herdsman. Would have been such a golden opportunity to rid the world of a most insufferable brute.

   Paris doesn’t notice the king rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to stave away a headache. Children will make a game of anything, but this is not the time to be children.

   - It seems few of our neighbours understand the threat posed by the Ahhiyawans. The great labarna is, of course, biding his time. What word from Teutrania then, Antenor?

   - Your sister Astyokhe sends her most reverent regards. Her husband as well, bur Telipinu-Telephos is of Akhaian descent himself, therefore unlikely to join the war against them.

   - At least he is not going to ally himself with our enemies, either. That is some consolation. What about the new recruits, Hektor?

   - Better than they could be, not as good as they should be. But do not be concerned, if the Gods allow us enough time – the soldiers shall be ready. No man fights with greater zeal than he who must defend what is his by right.

   - Says he who allowed an Ida-bred country boy to usurp his, ahem, rightful place, and sell the Troad to Muwatalli in exchange for empty promises, - Deiphobos sneers.

   A tired groan is his reply. The eldest prince has heard those same words only about a thousand times over the last months. As if that would solve anything.

   - Should we have started a civil war in addition to Wilusa’s already substantial troubles? Be reasonable, Deiphobos. The real concern here is that Hatti refuses to honour their end of the agreement. Is this not unusual for them, father?

   - Unusual does not mean unthinkable, I am afraid. Particularly considering the kind of agreement Paris yoked us all into. But you are not wrong, such lack of consideration for his… subjects, in effect - is strange for the Sun. Should we send an embassy?

   - Perhaps I could… - drawls Paris with more confidence than he feels.

   And is promptly met with a roomful of sharp glares. Oh, the Trojan nobles might disagree and bicker, but nothing unites them as surely as loathing for the former cowherd.

   - You have done quite enough already, - spits ancient Antenor. – No more foolishness.

   The silent but obvious agreement of the statesmen present is mortifying. Only Antimakhos tries to dispute the consensus half-heartedly, remembering the gifts and promises Paris had been so liberal with. The new heir himself holds his tongue for once. A welcome respite.

   - It seems, our neighbours are unlikely to become more cooperative until the enemy begins ravaging Asian land. Sooner or later, they must understand they are a target as well. For now… we can of course deal with the pirate raids, and, hopefully, the initial assault. We have resources, and we can buy allies. No need to lose heart. We must all at least agree on that.

   Antenor coughs into his fist, meets Priam’s eyes calmly.

   - Must we, my king? Perhaps it is still not too late to relinquish the Spartan woman. True, now that the insult has been done, Akhaia shall not be appeased easily. The spark has fallen on dry kindling. They desire revenge, glory and plunder. But if we deprive them of the impetus, the coalition is bound to weaken, perhaps even break. At the very least we can avert the anger of the immortals with a show of good faith.

   - Too late, my friend. Even if we do so, even if the beast is appeased for the time being – remember the iron lions, who are even closer than the bronze ones. They shall naturally view such steps as a declaration of fealty to Mykene. Helen with her dowry is one thing, but we all know whose servant Paris has become now – and Agamemnon will want to give the fool his punishment. Which is my desire too, but we can not stand against Hatti.

   - Ahem. I am here, you know, - the youth complains, without expecting any sympathy.

   And none he receives. The elders of Wilusa are preoccupied with war preparations. Embassies to nearby kings and chieftains, laden with gifts and promises. Considering the best marriage options for some of Priam’s daughters. Such unbearably trivial business.

   Kreusa is soon to leave for Dardania, as previously agreed. Aineias is still reluctant, and needs some honey to entice him to the cause.

   Imbrios of nearby Pedaion would take for his wife Medesikaste – an illegitimate daughter of Priam, but one from a noble mother.

   There is also some hope of finding a suitor willing to fight for the city in exchange for Kassandra’s hand – without bringing too much attention to her illness.

   Laodike would have been used in the same way – and without complaint, for all her pride. But Antenorides Helikaon has been her intended since childhood, and Priam can not allow his word to be cast into doubt. Every other royal girl is a commodity – as are all the horses, gold, sweet words, calling in of old favours and pledges of trade concessions flowing ceaselessly all over Asia – to Tenedos, Thrake and the Kikones, Mysia, Hatti, to the Lykians – ah, but who could keep count?

   In the former cowherd’s opinion, buying the Ahhiyawan chieftains one by one would hardly have presented greater difficulty. Why can they not be satisfied with silver and gold instead of blood? But when he tries to share those thoughts, not a man in the assembly pays any mind to his ramblings. They have perfected the art of ignoring a certain little pest.

   Ah, but when the news from Tarhuntassa roar like thunder from a clear sky – even Paris hears the crows screeching. Only those black birds could have summoned such a calamity.

   Muwatalli – confident, constant, strong Muwatalli – is dead. Some disease, most likely. Nevertheless, the merchant who brought the news had barely managed to slip out of the new capital. The city pretends at peace, but any foreigner is watched with feverish attention.

   Curious indeed. The empire does have a history of succession crises, but nothing seems to portend one now. The legitimate heir has taken the throne without incident – young Mursili, who once bore the Hurrian name Urhi-Teshub. His uncle Hattusili supports the new labarna for now, seemingly heedless of his own claim. A man of frail health, devoted to his Goddess – Ishtar of Samuha, and to his wife – who would expect any ambition from him?

   Not yet. Not just yet. The lions are still circling one another warily. But great Ishtar, the winged star of morning and nightfall, already shines a blazing crimson high above the land of Hatti.


	16. Not all that glitters is...

\- Akhilleus! Akhilleus! They are here!

\- Oh, already? And father is not one to keep important visitors waiting, so… it’s time.

   The youth rises with a yawn and a stretch, his sandals conveniently forgotten, hair disheveled. And the grass had been so soft, too.

   Patroklos nods. Puts an encouraging hand on his companion’s shoulder. Which would have been a somber gesture, if not for the two young Lakonian dogs loudly demanding attention. They get half-hearted scratches behind the ears for now, no more. Have patience, girls.

   - Yes, it is time. Have you changed your mind?

   - Ask me a question I have an answer for.

   - In that case: are you going to Aulis? There is still time if…

   A blatant lie. Peleides had informed his father of his decision, and the latter sent word to the high king. Now, only the formalities are left. The loss of face if he refuses now would be…

   Not that he is seriously considering that option. Not too often, at least. Just half of the time

   - I am. I could waver and dither until Ouranos’ manhood grows back, but I am going.

   His friend’s smile lacks any real mirth, but his eyes speak of resignation and confidence. Menoitiades had been one of Helen’s suitors. He is bound to join the expedition whether he wishes to or not.

   But did the copper-haired boy have more choice in the matter when the war trumpets were sounded and hungry hands grabbed that spear and shield without thinking?

   - Well, the important business of dithering can wait. Let us go and meet the younger Atreides and the Pylian. They arrived with such pomp, and the son of a Goddess is wasting his time on fruitless worry while a dog is chewing on his sandal. Poimenis, stop.

   - Make her; you are the one who is good with animals.

   They don’t bother. Akhilleus can go barefoot – did Iason, another student of Kheiron, not lose a sandal on his way to Iolkos?

   One of the dogs – Aello, the one not currently battling with footwear – follows the excited pair to the great… fine, not-so-great – hall of Aiakides Peleus.

   Rocky Phthia rarely sees visitors as illustrious as the kings of Pylos and Sparta, so the uproar is almost disgraceful. Not unlike a rural festival with all its noise and drinking, but mercifully lacking in costumed satyrs and mock maenads.

   The guests have certainly seen better – but worse, too. They shall waste no time: a brief exchange of pleasantries with the ruler, discussing some technicalities concerning the ships, greeting the young prince. Then, they will be free to leave. Meanwhile, the soldiers in their retinue can determine whether girls from these parts are truly as fair as advertised.

   Tremble, holy Wilusa, now your foes have Ananke on their side. The boy of the prophecy is ready for his first war. He left his hiding hole on Skyros, and shall now lead his father’s far-famed soldiers. Not a mean cause for celebration.

   Menelaos and Nestor, therefore, have come to extend a formal invitation to Phthia, One as the banner to which the warriors are rallying, the other – as an esteemed elder and voice of wise counsel among the wanaktoi. Besides, the latter knows Peleus from their days on the Argo – ah, golden time… The two haven’t met since one of them married a Nereid – which, honestly, could not have happened all that long ago, aside from the fact that the child of that union has grown tall as a cedar since then.

   The guests – king and soldier alike - are feasted with a somewhat coarse but sincere courtesy. What more can be expected of a barely civilized northern country? The locals have more in common with the Dorians than with Akhaians. But were the latter not themselves little more than savages, speechless with awe in the horned shadow of Kretan palaces, until very recently?

   Not even the Moirai can tell which tribe shall rise above the others in a few generations, for the great tapestry is full of breath and change.

   Peleides decided to entertain the visitors with a song. One about the Seven. A pleasant performance – despite the occasional stale turn of phrase. Menelaos remembers the old aoidos in Mykene. His deep voice that lost clarity, but not force, and his thundering words. There is a wrongness to the scene of a young man singing about war. It sounds far too natural, far too easy. Like hungry ravens that know they will be fed soon.

 

 Speak through me, Goddess, of sacred Thebe, of her seven gates:

High is her glory, and deep her relentless woe.

Strangers to peace are the children of Oidipous, bitter fruits

On a bitter branch. Cursed is the scepter and cursed the hand

Raised against kin. See the tall walls shudder once, but stand firm,

Twice shall blind Themis bring down Her two-faced axe.

Son of Polyneikes, build a road of sharp bronze to return

Home – oh, lament the lot of the vanquished, who envies the weak?

 

   Ill-fated Oidipous, his father’s murderer and his mother’s husband, pronounced a curse on his disrespectful heirs, Eteokles and Polyneikes. The youths were initially meant to share the rule of the city, but that did not last long. One throne, one scepter – and so, Eteokles exiled his own flesh and blood, like far too many jealous rulers before him and after.

   His brother was not one to surrender meekly. In horse-rearing Argos he married Argeia, daughter of Adrastos who ruled there, and sought allies and mercenaries. In time, seven chieftains raised an army and laid siege to Thebe, despite unfavourable omens.

   Only Adrastos returned from that expedition, saved by the wondrous stallion that had been placed in his care. The other six heroes, as well as countless common soldiers, fell before the seven fabled gates. Amphiaraos, Tydeus, Kapaneus, Hippomedon, Parthenopaios, at last Polyneikes himself.

   His treacherous brother did not live to enjoy victory, either. The two heirs to a cursed legacy killed each other. Yet Eteokles was buried with honour, while the other was left to the tender mercy of dogs and birds of prey.

   No peace would he have known in the other world, had his sister Antigone not performed the proper rites on his corpse. But the brave girl was found out, and punished. A tholos tomb became the only bridal chamber she would ever know, and willingly falling into Thanatos’ embrace without waiting for a torturous slow demise the only dignity she could wrestle from this injustice.

   Ten years later: more uninvited guests in Boiotia. Once again there are seven chieftains, once again there is bronze, smoke and blood. Amphiaraides Alkmaion leads them, as demanded by an oracle.

   This time, they win. Only one of the Epigonoi – the children of the original Seven – died: Aigialeus, whose father had been the only one to escape the previous disaster.

   Back in the present, Phthia’s king is a piteous sight. Thetis’ touch left him little more than a dried husk of a man, a cicada’s discarded shell. No more the descendant of Zeus whose blood surges with power, but an old, old soldier, misfortunate in his overwhelming good fortune.

   Well, he knew what would happen, and accepted this fate. Not gladly, no – how does one make peace with the thought that, if not for those few years drowned in sea-green bliss, he could have been leading the Myrmidones into battle himself? But glory and battle are a thing of the past for him now.

   No – he himself feels like a thing of the past. And so, that mighty spear, Kheiron’s gift, armour and shield from Hephaistos’ forge, those deathless horses – what need does a ruin of a man have of such brilliant things? Let youth have them, and win greater glory still than old age used to enjoy.

   Time marches over all mortals, turning their bones to dust, and shaping dust into new, strong, doomed skeletons.

   - My son, may these arms and these steeds serve you no less faithfully than they served me. Strive to bring glory to your own name, and those of your parents, and to your homeland. If only I had some strength left in these useless limbs to join you! Stand tall among the others, for all men are subject to death, but twice perishes he who is ruled by weakness, deserted by good fame and shunned by all. Such a fate would be beneath you.

   - I know this, father. Thank you. I swear to never dishonour you, as I know your gifts shall never fail me. The very shadow of this spear, the very sound of Balios’ and Xanthos’ thundering hooves shall strike terror into Trojan hearts.

   Peleus, who could easily be mistaken for his own child’s grandfather, can do little. But he can embrace the boy in silence – not trusting his voice to remain steady. Not in front of so many witnesses.

   May fast-flowing Sperkheios keep his heir safe in Asia, he prays, and that long copper hair shall be cut in the river God’s honour. But what power does Sperkheios have so far from its waters?

   Patroklos’ father, Menoitios – yet another Argonaut, now a petty basileus in eastern Lokris – has entirely different parting words for his own child. He speaks of service, of help and steady support, for the brash young prince surpasses his dear friend in nobility of lineage and in martial prowess, but not in good sense. He will have need of wise and measured words – and listens to none more readily than Menoitiades.

   Not that Patroklos needs any encouragement. For his prince and companion’s sake, he would go to the ends of the earth, and far beyond, Gods help him. How could he not?

   He feels his own spirit soar when the beaming child of the Nereid forgets all his worries for a short while, jumping on the richly adorned chariot and taking the wondrous horses, born of Podarge the harpy and the west wind, for a ride – to his own delight and that of the onlookers.

 The horses are a miracle, the charioteer is capable despite his age – so the guests praise both in earnest, not for propriety’s sake. The pair is well deserving of envy – feet flashing, nostrils flaring. A team far beyond compare in wide Oikumene.

   Is this even the same youth who had been so full of melancholy? It is. There will be more mood swings, more fragility, doubts and whispered cursing of Fate. Later, once he is alone with those closest to him. But for now, the redhead is aglow with confidence, and no less sweaty than the stallions he is handling so mercilessly.

   Exhausted but not enough to settle down, Akhilleus seeks out the royal visitors. Never one for patience, he hurls questions like pebbles into still water. When does the fleet set sail? Who are the most distinguished warriors of Asia? Yes, aside from Hektor. No, archers are boring. Is this true, by the way, that this bowman, Paris, did not steal Helen, but she went with him willingly? Oh, no, son of Atreus, forgive this thoughtless insult, it was unintentional. It is just that everyone has been talking, and… hey, will the war be like that on Thebe?

   No, quite different. For all its might, the city of Kadmos had been an island in an uncaring sea, while Wilusa is anything but. It is as ready for war as it ever could be. Men, arms, food, fortifications, are all plentiful. As for alliances – those span wider than ever. Even discounting Hatti… but only fools underestimate the iron men.

   Akhaia’s best strategy is to not distract that looming colossus from its internal troubles. Not too rudely, at least. The Atreidai have entirely justified demands, and since the house of Dardanos has shown no intention of making amends, punishing them is entirely lawful. The Sun has no reason to interfere, and every reason to stall for time. So easy for an overworked labarna to overlook some mischief along the coast…

   Still, Priam has other friends to rely on – less powerful but nothing to make light of – and his eldest surviving son is a great warrior and capable commander. The siege is bound to last, and time shall not work in the invaders’ favour. This calls for more unity, more discipline and patience than Akhaia’s unruly folk are accustomed to. Even one who is right and therefore hopes for divine help must help himself first. Miracles don’t happen without preparation.

   And with preparation, victory’s ripe fruit shall fall into their outstretched hand so very easily.

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   Ah, Aulis. What a perfectly bothersome place. Can’t sneeze without everyone finding out.

   Not surprisingly, word of Akhilleus leaving Phthia had the effect of opening a jug of wine less than a mile away from a kentaur herd. Too many exciting and excited men in one place, not enough good old boredom.

   All that noise could awaken a giant buried beneath the earth somewhere nearby. There are so many impatient fools gawking about. And oh, it seems they are not at their limit yet. Some of them seem to believe Odysseus knows everything there is to know about the child of the prophecy.

   Well, they will have to wait and see.  Thankfully, faithful Eurybates is helping his king elbow through the crowd – two arms would not have been enough.

   The Ithakans did not take long to sorely regret coming. Wiser men – one of them named Diomedes - are minding their own affairs right now, busy with actual work. Others have a proper excuse. Like Agamemnon, who must welcome the new arrival and his own brother, so of course he is here – but making the tediousness of this duty and Akhilleus’ insignificance compared to the great wanax apparent to all.

   Still, there are quite a few shepherds of men in attendance. Both Aiantoi – the Greater and the Lesser, as well as Telamon’s illegitimate son by Hesione the Trojan, Teukros by name. Shield, spear, and bow. Palamedes arrived – how disgustingly proper of him, Protesilaos of Phylake, then the two Asklepiadai. Powerful Tlepolemos, Philoktetes, Nireus in his best clothes seeking scraps of attention. Some people even less important than the latter.

   No sign of the Knossian and Athenian rulers. But look at all the common soldiers coming and coming…

   All in all, far from the worst welcoming party in history. The boy will love it.

   There he is at last. Ten ships equipped for war approaching the coast, filled with men, weapons, supplies, what have you. Let Agamemnon tally, if he wants.

   Good, very good. Some Skyrians must have joined the ostensibly Phthian contingent. But who cares about that place, or about the numbers. The Myrmidones are the real gain here.

   Once upon a time, Aiakos – son of Zeus, father of Peleus – had lost all his subjects to Hera’s wrath, visited on the people of Aigina. So, the child prayed to his great cloud-gathering father – and Kronides heard.

   Ants – stubborn, diligent ants, well used to working and fighting as a community – grew into humans. Strange origin, great warriors all the same.

   So, even without that oracle the presence of the ant-soldiers under the prince’s command would have been excellent news. Khaire, Aulis, rejoice while still you can.

   But disembarking is easier said than done. The newly arrived soldiers need space to come ashore, and the crowd is too disorganized. Somebody is likely to get crushed or trampled in the excitement. Would do real wonders for the morale and terrify the Trojans. What an army.

   The king of Mykene on his high vantage point that commands the vicinity raises his famous golden scepter, Hephaistos’ work that had once belonged to Pelops. He orders the spectators to dissipate in an orderly manner and give the Myrmidones some space at last. Good voice, though Talthybios has to help from time to time.

   Works well enough. The crowd begins to melt away in small groups. The more reasonable ones forcibly drag their friends away – surely there will be plenty of time for a closer look at Peleides.

   Speaking of the youth – he is at the prow of the largest ship. A newly built vessel, green Nereid’s eyes staring like those of a Gorgon. Probably named something like _the Nereid_ , too.

   The boy’s elation is painful to look at. He has grown taller since the Ithakan saw him last, and disturbingly more confident. Still keeps that hair long – cutting it would have been such a shame. Must have consecrated it to a deity, as some do before important undertakings.

   Armoured, heavy shield in hand – the ideal young hero to inspire countless songs. So many eyes on him: curious, impressed, hopeful, intoxicating.

   Child, child, who wears a helmet and breastplate just to boast? In this oppressive heat, too. Does this place look like the Troad to you? See any enemies nearby?

   Unless those with divine blood never sweat – which would have been useful - he must be dying for a bath right now. But still keeping up appearances.

   He descends on the beach like a strange apparition, while the remaining onlookers yell, as drunk on the moment as the youth. Some welcome him as they would Victory Herself – thank you, Kalkhas, hope needs so little soil to thrive.

   The prince’s companions follow him to dry land. Patroklos goes first – exiled from home for an accidental killing, he was cleansed of the taint by Peleus and serves Phthia faithfully ever since. There is also young Automedon next to ancient bent Phoinix – a parable made flesh.

   The latter, curiously, is another exile now devoted to his hospitable new homeland. He had helped rear Akhilleus until it was time for Kheiron to step in.

   And now Balios and Xanthos, led by reverent servants, step onto the sand. The very sight of those immortal horses is a blessing – wonder of wonders, something to be revered, not forced to pull a chariot. Even Odysseus forgets his customary irritability.

   The clamor stops at once. Can’t insult the stallions, can we? T

   he more dazzled by Akhilleus the army becomes – the darker the high king’s countenance grows. But he forces himself to address the mob’s new darling with all courteousness, inviting him to a feast that is to be held in his honour come evening. However, Agamemnon pointedly ignores the boy’s outstretched hand. The new cub must learn his place in the pride. Yes, all kings are equal – but the wanax of Mykene is more equal than the others.

   Uh-oh. How very friendly. Clouds on the horizon.

   Most either don’t notice, or could not care less. They got their show, felt the touch of promised victory – how could it fail to come true? A satisfying and reassuring display.

   Could this so-called army perhaps treat the war preparations with the same relentless enthusiasm they have for supper and spectacle? An Ithakan basileus can dream.

   What he has to work with in reality is more complicated. Some are cavalier, others – too wary, some envious, some shortsighted. The evening’s banquet tastes of poison, the wine is sour and the setting sun as pale and emaciated as the visage of Khronos.


	17. First Blood

   A king might feel sorely tempted to believe himself above all others, but it only draws the ire of those who are in fact greater than any mortal. Maintaining a healthy respect for them is much more beneficial in the long run. Friends in high places can go a long way.

   For instance, some loudmouth – say, Thersites of Aitolia – declares that, were the Atreidai meant to win, they would not have allowed the army to go nearly hungry.

   Well, supplies had been less than plentiful, to be honest. But Palamedes tapped his chin, pondered and set sail for Delos. Lo and behold – the island’s ruler, Anios, decided to be helpful at last and war-minded Aulis was regaled with… a visit by Anios’ young daughters?

   Oh, no, this is nothing improper. Firstly, the girls – Elais, Spermo and Oino – are dedicated to the Nysean God, none would be foolish enough to touch them. Secondly, vigilant Delian guards hound their every step – just in case. Thus, the maidens are safe and free from all cares, as much as anyone can be in a military camp.

   Each of the girls has a gift: the ability to transform whatever she touches into food. Olive oil, grain, wine – there is no shortage of any of that now. In addition, the Akhaians have never been lax when it comes to hunting, so, in the end, the army, while not entirely happy, has grown content. Bad year for harvests? You don't say.

   Keeping your soldier’s stomach satisfied might not be as vital as Olympian favour, but still no joking matter.

   Yet the divine demands it’s due as well, particularly before such a momentous enterprise. The sacrifice has to be suitably grand – and a public display of unity is in order, too.

   And so it happens. Thestorides and his men prepare all that is needed for the ceremony, the Delian girls gather some flowers for the garlands, the best cattle are selected with all care.

   It is the perfect opportunity for every last chieftain, great or small, to gather and affirm his commitment to Aga… ahem, to the war effort – on his own behalf and that of his soldiers

   Finally, the alliance of the horse comes together. The men have purified themselves, and the rite proceeds according to custom. The smoke and the prayers rise high unimpeded.

   Then, the time for more prosaic matters is at hand. Ahh, politics.

   Menelaos is the one to begin, of course. Unable to punish the criminal on his own, he entrusts his honour to Agamemnon. This he swears, as bovine blood flows, and flows, and…

   They all follow suit. With certainty or through clenched teeth, they utter the words all the same. Those who wanted to avoid the war and had the means to did so in the very beginning.

   Dozens of brazen throats join in a chorus, a single metallic voice echoes far and wide. At the same time, the dark red river surging from entirely different throats swells without pause.

   The scarlet flood sweeps Kalkhas off his feet. Unbidden, his head turns to a nearby plane tree – tall, ancient - and the sacrificial dagger stops moving.

   - Look, men of Akhaia, a bird! – his bloody hand indicates.

   They are not blind. The humble sparrow flitting around the tree is raising a bit of a ruckus, too. Ah, of course: there is its nest in the branches, full of hatchlings. One, two, six… eight! All too aware of a hungry snake waiting for the right moment close by.

   Wide-ruling Agamemnon furrows his royal brow.

\- What of it? Those are hardly uncommon. If this is an omen – explain its meaning clearly.

\- Have patience, and the omen shall explain itself.

   The serpent makes its move at last. A swift attack, another, yet another – the hatchlings are swallowed whole, one by one.

   But that is not enough. They had been so very tiny. Now, it is the adult bird’s turn. Only this seems to satisfy the snake.

   - Nine full winters, nine summers. That is how long this war shall take. But, in the tenth year, holy Wilusa shall perish, and Priam’s spear-wielding people as well. So it is fated.

   The chieftains are speechless. Serpentine inevitability coils around them, freezing. Not a whisper of wind.

   Nine years. And this coming from a seer whose words have never been false. Sounds teeth-grindingly plausible, too: the Troad has little reason to complain about the might of its soldiers, walls or allies these days. And, if anything is lacking – gold can easily fill the void.

   The silence is crushing If only a man could spill all those unspoken words on the altar instead of blood – how else do you free them from your throat?

   It’s all thick, heavy and very red. Even those who are fully prepared to spend not one but two decades fighting on foreign shores – they too cannot help but wonder: how does one break such news to the common soldiers? And it must be done, no buts or ifs.

   Oh, some would have kept the secret gladly (let us refrain from naming names). But there is no use. So long as a single man tells – all of Aulis shall hear in an instant, and what that place knows… well, Akhaia has good, alert ears when she wants to.

   Still – distant as it may be, knowing there will be an end to the war has to count for something. If they must speak to the soldiers, starting with happy tidings must be the best approach. For, once the rest of the prophecy becomes known… do you enjoy a good competition, my lords wanaktes and basileis? Here is the newest one: which contingent is about to produce the most deserters.

   The discontent settles down eventually. Bitter, leaden-hearted, the ships take to the sea –those who ride the waves find the future the least of their worries.

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************

Too. Much. Fog. Honestly, how can this amount of thick, heavy milky haze even exist?

   Navigating through the grey clouds is an exercise in futility. Stars? Sun? Good luck finding those. Likely as lost as the mortals. At least the latter can keep track of each other by sound, so the fleet has managed to flock together somehow. Other causes for jubilation are in short supply. By now, any kind of dry land – unless all of Gaia has melted into this surreal wetness – would seem a blessing beyond price.

   That blessing, like most others, is stumbled upon at first, and takes some time to be recognized. The Myrmidones, being the first to have kissed Mother Earth, forget all discipline at once and leave the ships. There are some halfhearted promises to determine the fleet’s whereabouts and return, hopefully with supplies. The fog devours them and their laughter, along with a large number of Salaminians, and even Theban Thersandros plus retinue. Those who either kept their wits or were too late to join, have no choice but to stay and make camp.

   They don’t have to wait for long. A soldier comes running, breathless and covered in blood. Between gasps, he somehow explains what happened.

   The scouting party encountered armed locals, one thing led to another – now, there is a fight. A bit of help would be nice.

   Frankly, allies or not, this level of idiocy deserves to be punished, and some would rather the scouts be left to fend for themselves. But most agree – with not a bit of head-shaking - this is not the time for object lessons. Send aid first, beat your friends senseless later.

   Diomedes and Menelaos rally some of their best men and take off. Following the messenger, they tear through the haze like thunderbolts clad in bronze. All too easily, the grey curtain parts, revealing the scene of the battle.

   It is… worse than expected. The enemy is a tough one.

   Is this the Troad already? The armour and weapons are not dissimilar, and the defenders are well-organized. Their commander cuts an impressive if blurry figure, too.

   No matter. Time to show them Akhaia means business. Forget battle order, forget tactics, any resistance will be crushed and that is all. Let sharp metal speak. But…

   Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how quickly reinforcements are dispatched. There are losses on the Akhaian side – far too many for a random scuffle. Wounded, of course, but dead, too.

   Had anyone predicted such an end for Thersandros of the Epigonoi – killed by a chance javelin from a nameless enemy over nothing – all would have called him a liar. But this is a liar’s morning, a false and veiled Eos clothed in shimmering grey.

   All Tydeides can do is keep his comrade’s corpse from being taken by the enemy, and carry it away from the fray. Then – back to the bloody work of revenge.

   Do you people want to die so badly? You will. Styx and Phlegethon have nothing on the whips of the Erynies.

   This should have been just a bad joke, but now all tastes bitter. Nothing but bile, ash, metal and salt. Is it any wonder that madmen laugh when they kill?

   Give an Akhaian a proper enemy – and you are as close to a perpetual motion machine as one can get. When thousands are involved... may the Gods show mercy, for mortals have none.

   Slowly, deliberately, as if to shame the world with scenes of carnage, the mist dissolves.

   The locals are only slightly discouraged by their own losses, and if they have decided to retreat, they are doing so in an orderly fashion, without exposing any weak points.

   Apparently, there is a small group of amazon horsewomen among them. Those curved bows are still useless in this weather, but the javelins do bite. Several Akhaian soldiers claim to have killed their leader – none can prove that for certain. Can they be near Themiskyra?

   Not a well-timed question. The battle has not entirely died down yet. With some reluctance, both sides recognized the sharpness of each other’s fangs and claws. Time to regroup.

   Hold on. Where is Akhilleus? What do you mean – even the Myrmidones have no idea?

   He is in hot pursuit after the local chieftain. Let others waste time on common soldiers – Peleides’ prey is a king or some high dignitary, to judge from his chariot and armour. Tall fellow, too – could easily rival Tlepolemos. A shame for such an impressive man to be running from a fight, really. Can’t he be a bit more entertaining?

   Not that there is anything wrong with fleeing from a half-divine enemy, born and bred for battle, of course.

   The young man’s swiftness could make the very Winds green with envy, but his quarry is goaded by fear, so the game drags on. Until they reach the richest vineyards any Akhaian has ever seen.

   Laugh all you want, but the vines are what brings the chase to an end. The tall chieftain stumbles, and a bad fall leaves him sprawled on the ground, breathless.

   A copper-maned shadow blocks the sun. Raises its spear made of Pelian ash. Strikes.

   Akhilleus misses. Instead of a mortal blow, he only wounds the older man’s thigh. Was too distracted by the sudden clamour.

   The locals have managed to gather reinforcements. Akhilleus is forced to pull back, and two warriors help the giant to his feet. Huh? That injury looks bad.

   Limping, he is led away to safety – in the direction of the city, one must presume. Two dozen soldiers are covering his retreat, and there must be bowmen hiding nearby, too. But Peleides has his own loyal men, and could give chase once the Myrmidones catch up.

   A mostly unscathed Patroklos is the first to find him. Apparently, the skirmish is as good as over, and Agamemnon sent the heralds to speak to the ruler of this place. Both sides need a truce to rest and bury the dead – while, ahem, some of us would like to know where in Tartaros the fleet landed. So – back to the ships they go, like schoolboys expecting a beating.

   Fine. At least Akhilleus defeated his opponent, underwhelming as that had been. And whoever managed a glancing strike at Menoitiades did not rejoice for long, either. Nobody is likely to be writing any songs about this land’s soldiers any time soon. Good grapes, though.

   The two wolf down as much of the dark, pleasantly sour fruit as they desire, as reward for a good day’s work.

   When they reach the camp, it is in disarray. Talthybios and Eurybates have yet to return from the negotiations. Someone even briefly mistook Peleides and his companion for the delayed heralds. Could use some help with the bad eyesight.

   The real embassy returns shortly. Satisfactory truce terms have been agreed upon, and there are other news, too – farcical and tragic in equal measure.

   The army managed to land in Mysian Teuthrania, of all places. A son of Herakles rules here, Telephos by name. The people have taken to calling him Telipinu, after a great labarna of Hatti. Which is also the name of a God – the youthful and full of life-giving power but quick to anger child of the Storm God.

   Well, they did not miss Asia, at least. But, instead of the true enemy, they clashed with a powerful potential ally. Or, more realistically, a potential neutral party. A highborn Akhaian by blood Herakleides may be, but his eldest wife is a sister of Priam, and cursed is he who takes up arms against kin. And, as if that were not enough…

   Another wife had been an amazon. The one who perished in the battle.

   Agamemnon shakes his head in despair. Under more favourable circumstances, Teuthrania would have been perfectly manageable. But now? They cannot afford a setback like this.

   Before long, he sends for Tlepolemos. Surely the large man can soften his half-brother’s heart – who understands a child of Herakles better than another member of this wild, glory-branded tribe? Also: gifts. One can never go wrong with gifts.

   Akhilleus has to go with the new embassy, too. And offer the most heartfelt apology imaginable. And no buts, young man. Off you go and salvage what you can.

   The Mysian ruler’s glare does not immediately melt on seeing a sibling he never knew, of course, but, given time, melt it does. There are some belated explanations, high praise for Telephos and blame thrown in the general direction of Wilusa and the mist. Many stories of the mighty Alkeides are told – some well-known, some that few have ever heard. The Rhodian chieftain remembers his father well, and the other man is only too eager to listen.

   Ironic, is it not: the great hero’s child who resembles him the most never knew him.

   Soon enough, the two are no longer enemies, but guest and host, sharing food and drink and tall tales. The Nereid’s child begs forgiveness earnestly enough, too. Yet he cannot help but be bothered by the smell filling the throne room. Besides, why did their host not rise even once? Surely, enough days have passed since the battle for his injury to start healing. The boy himself never needed to spend much time recuperating.

   Well, what will the Asklepiadai say?

   Good timing. When the healers arrive at the palace and inspect the patient, Makhaon’s accusing glare nearly makes Akhilleus whimper like a guilty puppy.

   To be honest, a tiny bit of whimpering might have been involved.

\- Is this your handiwork? We should have been informed earlier.

\- How was I supposed to… - the redhead hisses, but anger soon gives way to mortification. He is the cause of that injury, after all, so who else is to blame?

\- You have been here for days, child. The contamination is spreading – surely you know enough to see how bad it is. Pray – for your own sake – that his leg can still be healed. We clean the wound, you assist. Fetch a knife, some clean cloth for bandaging and water. Podaleirios, boil the wine. We will do all that can be done, Herakleides, promise.

   And so they do. Even Peleides recalls Kheiron’s medicine lessons well enough to be of help, so the Asklepiadai decide there is no need to be too harsh on the youth. There will be plenty of time for entertainment later, what matters now is the patient.

   Their stay in oh-so hospitable Teuthrania extends to an uncomfortable length. The young prince Eurypylos is livid - impotently and ridiculously so - but his father seems to be recovering – and too exhausted to antagonize the invaders-guests-kinsmen at any rate.

   Philoktetes takes the time to visit the palace. So do two grandsons of Herakles, then Odysseus and the two Atreidai. Still, none of them can convince Telephos-Telipinu to join their cause. Using his country as a base of operations, perhaps? Out of the question. Well, was worth a try nevertheless.

   By the time the Akhaians leave – hopefully for the Troad this time – they know the local ruler well enough to not question his decision. They get supplies, good horses – no more.

   At least the mutual bitterness has subsided – even Akhilleus is now forgiven. As for assisting either side in the war – Telephos proclaims that his prayers shall always be for the triumph of justice and defeat of wickedness, but passing judgment on which is which can only be a task for the Gods, not fallible men like him.


End file.
